Here, Where the World is Quiet
by ricochette
Summary: History creeps up on you when you least expect it. OC/Speirs.
1. Chapter 1

By the age of seven, Anya Metternich could recite the names of the American presidents from Washington to Hoover without missing a beat. By the age of nine she had mastered the vice presidents. By the age of twelve she was helping her older brothers with their history homework, carefully explaining events such as the Battle of Little Big Horn and the Somme, as if these were things she was born to do. By the age of thirteen Anya had boldly declared that she would teach history. At this point, she was taken seriously. She studied day and night, and understood the works of Immanuel Kant by her sixteenth birthday.

Anya had graduated from Barnard College in 1942 at the age of twenty with a doctorate in American History, with a further specialization in military history. To say that she was academically advanced was an understatement. To her friends and family, her academic credentials and her thirst for knowledge were of no surprise. To new acquaintances and onlookers, the idea of a twenty year old young woman with the title Doctor was vexing to say the least. While others may say that titles are of no significance, Anya was proud to be Dr. Anya Violet Metternich. Her diploma, physical proof of her competence (if anyone did indeed doubt her), was encased in an ornate picture frame that hung ostentatiously on the wall behind her desk. It wasn't showing off. It was accomplishment. It was a trophy of undeniable worth, a reminder that Anya would frequently look upon for encouragement and inspiration when she felt down on her luck.

Now, one might think that a twenty year old so academically determined would not be described as a "looker". If one thought that, one would be wrong. Anya stood in at five foot four and was petite yet curvaceous. She had high cheekbones and fair skin, framed by waist length brown hair. Her eyes were green with hints of brown and amber. She was beautiful, but unaware of her beauty. At the age of thirteen she was on the receiving end of a particularly nasty dog bite, which extended across her left cheekbone, from north to south. Anya was fortunate that her father, a surgeon, was quick to tend to her wounds. There was only a faint scar on Anya's face, which stood as a testament to her father's medical prowess.

Perhaps, if it wasn't for this dog bite, she would have been like any other pretty girl – unremarkable. What made Anya beautiful, however, was the fact that she almost wasn't a pretty girl.

-------

The bitter black coffee was cold and stagnant in Anya's bright blue mug. She was lost in her journal, frantically scribbling out notes that she hoped would later form a coherent presentation. She was in her office in downtown New York City. She worked for a company called The Independent Research Institute which was funded largely by the United States Government. The Institute was formed quietly after intelligence discovered that the Rhineland in Germany was being remilitarized, in violation of the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. The government, with the approval of President Roosevelt himself, poured money into the Institute's vast research initiatives, which were focused on the Soviet Union, Germany, and Japan. Anya was guaranteed a position at the Institute while she was in her final year of her graduate program at Barnard College, and assumed her job as Historical Research Analyst promptly after graduation.

Anya's historical research and knowledge base focused on Europe. Though she was a Doctor of American History and had vast knowledge of military history, the Institute felt her academic background suited her best to European affairs. Her job was not as secretive as it sounded. She would, for a nice salary, analyze past historical events pertaining to Europe and determine their relevance when it came to policy decisions in Washington and, specifically, when it came to troops being deployed. She was an historian employed by the Institute, paid for by the United States government.

Anya smiled slyly as she thought about her work and the office that she often called home. _And I got teased for being into this shit,_ she mused. With those thoughts, Anya was inspired and continued scribbling into her leather bound journal. She was startled moments later, however, by a knock on her door.

"This better be important!" She called out, not looking up from her writing. The door opened and a man in army fatigues entered with purpose spelled out on his face.

"I know that temper." The man smiled. Anya looked up and saw a middle-aged man curiously eying her. He shifted his gaze from her and began looking around her office. A map of the United States and a map of Europe hung underneath Anya's diploma. Anya was seated in a dark brown, aged leather chair, which seemed to hold a story. Her desk was made from oak, and a mess of papers and books was strewn atop it. Anya was dwarfed by her messy desk, a goliath compared to her and her journal.

"Ah, if it isn't Brigadier General Dawson! Always a pleasure. Cigarette?" Anya retracted from her journal and reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a long, white, Lucky Strike and stuck it out in General Dawson's direction.

"Damn it, Doctor. I've committed myself to quitting for real this time!" Dawson chuckled softly as he took the cigarette and sat at the chair in front of Anya's mammoth desk. "And, of course, I'm assuming I am free to sit." After sitting, he lit his cigarette and began looking intently at the map of Europe that hung behind Anya, over her head.

"That Strike will be our secret. And General, make yourself comfortable. Anybody who gets a cigarette out of me certainly gets a chair. I'm assuming the wife and family are good, no?" The General nodded and Anya continued, as she pulled out a Lucky Strike for herself and struck a light. "Aye, all is well with me. Not looking forward to the impending winter, but I'll get over it. I'm getting even colder thinking about some of these European zones. Thank God I'm not focusing on the Soviet Union, or I'd be a goner. Oh God damn it, sir, are those snowflakes outside?" Anya motioned towards her window and the General nodded.

"The weather reports called for snow, unfortunately. It would seem you haven't changed, even with all of this paper work. You're still you're smoking, swearing self." Anya smiled and took a long drag out of her Lucky Strike. Though beautiful, she had a bit of a temper and a sailor's mouth that came out on occasion, which she attributed to her "can do" attitude. She also felt as if she had something to prove, being in a profession largely dominated by men. Of course, she would never admit this.

"Ah, it'll be a riot hailing a taxi in that mess when I get out of here. On that note, onto business… I'm compiling a long report assessing the current conditions in Europe compared to those of 1914, but I'm not sure if that's the right direction the Department of Defense was going for, General." Anya looked down at her journal and shook her head.

"You're on track. I just learned, though, that the Department wants a breakdown of cultural information. It might end up in a guidebook for some of the troops, or even material taught in classes aimed at prepping men for their deployment. You know, relating to the people that these men might encounter. There is also interest on a book or a potential series of short lectures for field nurses. The debriefing will be December 23rd."

"Consider this report and consequent presentation, then, my Christmas gift to you." Anya smiled and then pursed her rouged lips together. "What's my assignment when this report is finished?" She worried about the future – not for fear of losing her job, but for fear of boredom.

"Don't worry, Doc. I've got something special in the woodworks. That will me _my_ Christmas gift to _you_. Alright, I take my leave. Oh…. And Anya… get yourself a _hot_ cup of coffee and something to eat. There's no food at that the end of that cigarette." The General stood up and left Anya to her office, just as she was before he had entered. She cursed inwardly as she finally acknowledged her hunger and saw the need to leave her work and go to the Institute's cafeteria.

It was going to be a very long and hectic day.

-------------

December 23rd, 1942 came very quickly, which Anya realized while frantically working toward her deadline. _I hate the word deadline_, she mused. She found life and joy in writing – in the discovery of the past and what it could tell her about the present and the future. There was nothing dead about her passion. She didn't live by deadlines. At an early age, Anya was taught that you can't learn to live simply by fearing death.

For the first time in a very long time, possibly since her first date with a Columbia graduate student named Max, Anya was worried about her outfit. Prior to her presentation, she sat in front of her mirror, plaiting her hair, and dutifully applying her makeup. She carefully covered the faint remnants of her scar with foundation and then applied a subtle blush to accentuate her cheekbones and add the illusion of warmth on a cold winter day. Her lipstick was clearly evident, yet subtle. She carefully lined her eyelids with her kohl pencil. She would later, at the meeting, worthy whether or not her fabulous makeup application skills took away from the seriousness of her presentation. In a room full of men, she didn't want to appear novice.

She wore a tweed suit, consisting of a skirt, a white collared shirt, and a matching jacket. She didn't wear stockings, as was fashionable at the time. They reminded her of being dragged along to church with her family on hot summer days – the stockings would always get sweaty, sticky, and then they would inconveniently tear and run for all to see. She had a small hat and she wore low heeled shoes. Anya's look read business. It was uncommon for a woman at the age of twenty to abandon a dainty purse in lieu of a large leather rucksack. Anya proudly slung the heavy bag across her shoulder. It was the bag that her father used in medical school.

Anya left her apartment early that morning and took her time on the way to the presentation. She stopped at her favorite bar, The Rising Sun, for a glass of VAT 69, straight up with a twist. It was tradition that she started when she was in college. Before every big presentation or event, she would go to the bar, quietly enjoy her precious VAT 69 and a Lucky Strike, read the paper, and then hail a cab. Jim, the bartender, knew about her routine and before she could pull up a stool, he had her drink ready and waiting. "Good luck with your big day, Doc," said Bellows quietly, as he placed a rocks glass full of whisky and an ashtray in front of her. Anya stayed for a while, paid her tab, and proceeded to step out into the cold. She nonchalantly threw her cigarette down on the pavement and stepped on it, crushing the embers. In a matter of seconds, she hailed a taxi and retreated into the car that appeared before her.

The ride from her home, uptown, to the small auditorium, midtown, felt like it took ages. She wished that she had a flask with her, in her leather book bag, so she could drink warm swigs of courage. _On a second thought, maybe that would be a bad idea. Hold it together girl. Keep it cool in front of the big wigs, the brass. Don't be a fool._ She mused over her presentation and its contents in the cab, all the while wishing that she could get it over and done with.

She found that there was a smaller crowd than she had anticipated. It consisted of a small group of high ranking officials, all of which had varying amounts of silver and brass on their green uniforms. Anya sat in the front row, next to Brigadier General Dawson. At exactly one o'clock, Dawson rose and walked towards the podium that faced the chairs.

"Men, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss research that Dr. Anya V. Metternich of the Independent Research Institute has been compiling on behalf of the United States government. Dr. Metternich is an expert in her field, and is distinguished for graduating from Barnard College in record time. She was able to quickly compile and process vast amounts of material, all of which she believes will be of chief importance as we fight and chase our enemy across Europe. Now, I call Dr. Metternich to commence with her presentation." Dawson smiled and looked intently at Anya. _How official he sounds!_ Anya remarked and smiled, as she walked towards the front of the room. _No time for nerves now. There's a cigarette in this for you if you keep your cool._ She smiled at the thought.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. It's a great privilege to be addressing you on behalf of the Institute, at this point in time." The men in the room looked at her with great interest and curiosity. "As stated by the Brigadier General, my name is Dr. Anya V. Metternich and I have been working with the Independent Research Institute on behalf of the United States government. Through my research and work with Brigadier General Dawson, I have compiled a large report that we believe will be of great use to our government, when moving through Europe.

My report focuses on the problems and issues faced by the armed forces during the First World War and how these issues can be avoided this time around. Furthermore, I have useful information on the cultural issues that may arise out of our presence in foreign countries with different languages, currencies, political ideologies, and histories. I also have analyzed the current state of affairs in Europe and have offered solutions to potential problems that may arise. I hope that this information I have compiled will do its part to educate men and women, save lives, and end this war as quickly as possible. With that introduction, I begin…"

Anya's presentation lasted forty minutes, and by the end of that time period, she had earned the respect of the brass sitting before her. By her own judgment, she had also earned herself another Lucky Strike and possibly another drink at the Rising Sun. She was pleased about this. She spent the rest of the afternoon mingling with the higher ups that had been listening to her at the presentation. As she was exiting the building and making her way down the steps towards the street, Dawson ran out after her.

He was in a great rush and didn't have the time to explain much. Most of what he wanted to say was enclosed in the envelope he had in his hands. The letter was addressed to "Doc M." in a messy chicken peck script that only Dawson could have scribbled.

"Anya!" He called out to her and she turned to face him. He caught up with her and she looked at him with wonderment.

"Gosh, Brigadier General, you make a girl feel like Marlene Dietrich – with such an important man chasing after her!" Anya sarcastically quipped, which caused Dawson to chuckle to himself. She took this as her cue to pull out a Lucky Strike from her leather bag – a treat which she felt she was entitled to. She motioned for the General to take a Strike from her box but he declined. She lit her cigarette and looked at him with interest.

"So, you've quit… for now…" She stated, reluctant to believe that the good man had officially put his nicotine addicted days behind him.

"Never mind that. I haven't much time, Doc, but I appreciate the presentation. It was a very nice Christmas present. I'm off now and I don't know when I'll be back to the Institute. I trust that you'll be able to avoid boredom, Anya. Merry Christmas." And with those words, he handed her a large envelope and walked towards Fifty Second Street. Anya looked at him quizzically and continued walking towards the taxi line.

"West 84th Street, sir." She said politely as she stepped into her taxi and made her way home. The daylight was fading into shades of red, orange, and pink, which quickly reminded her of the rest that she hoped to find in her apartment.

------

Later that night, as she was sitting on the couch in her reading room, her thoughts drifted to the envelope that Dawson had given her. She traced the dreadful chicken scratch "Doc M." that stood out on the front of the envelope. With curiosity, she opened the envelope, unsure of what the contents might contain.

A letter and a postcard fell out onto her lap. She opened the letter and read it silently to herself. She could tell that Dawson had tried his hardest to write as legibly as he could.

_To the good Doctor,_

_That was a hell of a Christmas present._

_We've come a long way, you and I. My vision, your passion, and our dedicated work have proved useful. The brass enjoyed your presentation (I'm writing this as you mingle with the higher ups) and have given us a thumbs up._

'Now, what the hell is he talking about?' Anya thought, as she read through that sentence. 'I thought I was just writing a report…'

_There was a great purpose behind your research, which I had envisioned from the beginning. The purpose, however, was not to have some grand dissertation that would sit unread and unused in a university library or military school. This report is going places. I met with the main General at the meeting, and I am writing this letter to tell you that your report was approved – it's going to be taught in a series of mini-lectures to any men and women that will face deployment as soldiers or field nurses in the months ahead. Colonel Sink,, who you'll remember as the loud yet quick witted, cigar-smoking gentleman from the Airborne, took great interest in what you had to say today._

'I remember the Airborne. Entirely new. You'd have to be crazy to _volunteer_ to jump out of an airplane. Figure's you'd also have to be crazy to be enthralled in my nervous presentation and its ramblings…' Anya went on inwardly.

_The Army and the Airborne have expressed a distinct interest in starting with the lectures as soon as possible. Because I know you get bored (and because I know you're dreading the New York winter), I have a new assignment for you. Pack your cigarettes, your VAT 69 (Anya, I know you indulge), and your bags. You're going to have one hell of a time._

_Proud as ever,_

_Brigadier General James Dawson_

_PS – I hope you like peaches._

Anya didn't quite know what to make of the last part of the good General's message. She quickly looked at the postcard that came with the letter. On the front was a picture of an army camp. She discerned a forested mountain in the background, and a large open field enclosed by barracks and military style buildings. Puzzled, she turned over the postcard. On the back of the postcard, she saw Dawson's chicken scratch.

**CAMP TOCCOA**

**TOCCOA, GEORGIA**

_**Currahee, good doctor, Currahee.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to for the feedback, readers. :D I usually like to plan things out but I have a feeling this story is going where _it_ wants to go. Anyways, now that my laundry is done, the story can continue! Random notes: I haven't used this website in a long while and it seems so much more difficult to correct stupid typos (i.e. being in a rush and using "you're" in lieu of "your"). Tsk tsk.

* * *

**Chapter 2  
**

**January 15, 1943.**

"Now, y'all listen close. A doctor from the Independent Research Institute is here and has some wisdom to impart on y'all. Part of your training now includes classes on Europe and the Pacific. Dr. Grant will be lecturing on the Pacific while Dr. Metternich will be instructing on Europe. Pay close attention in these lectures -- " Colonel Sink continued lecturing Dog and Easy Company about the importance of the upcoming lecture.

The men sat before Colonel Sink. Some of them were listening attentively – Richard Winters, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton – while others had mastered the fine art of sleeping with their eyes open – Lewis Nixon, Harry Welsh – and some listened close, as if to find humor in the situation, or something to complain about – Bill Guarnere, Frank Perconte, George Luz. And then there was Herbert Sobel, who sat in the front row and looked as if he was watching a film. He listened closely to the Colonel – he would make a point to get the men to attend the lectures. He thought immediately of the punishments that would be in place for skipping out on one of the classes, or crapping out on some of the work. Herbert Sobel smiled to himself. There was an opportunity in everything.

"Sweet Jesus, a lecture 'bout a lecture. I ain't too good at school." Guarnere joked while Perconte shook his head. "Ah God, now we have to listen to some two old pops go on about some shit that doesn't matter. All I need is a gun and a target."

"—when I was at a presentation in New York City." Colonel Sink continued. "Any how, enough of me going on singing their praises. I now present Dr. Grant and Dr. Metternich of the Independent Research Institute." The room was silent. The airplane carrying Dr. Grant and Anya had run late, and just as Colonel Sink introduced them, the two nonchalantly walked into the room. Anya recalled the feeling of oversleeping and walking into a class fifteen minutes late, while the professor was in the middle of a lesson. She recalled the feeling of hundreds of eyes on her, staring. There was no point in looking embarrassed – that would surely amplify the magnitude of the stares and silence.

Dr. Grant made his way to the stage with Anya behind him. Grant was a man of about sixty years – he couldn't have been more different than Anya, forty years his junior. He had grey hair and he usually wore a pinstripe suit, which Anya dubbed "the 1915 look". She once jokingly asked him if he had a pocket watch – and he did. She maintained that his sense of style was stuck in 1915, the year when he joined the Army. Unbeknownst to the men before him (and Colonel Sink himself), he had fought in World War I. He experienced brutal combat in France and never spoke of it. His resume neglected to inform any potential reader of his military experience. It was a dark secret that only his close friends, family, and coworkers knew about. Anya recalled him mentioning it in passing, while he was helping her process some research about France after the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. "That country took one hell of a beating," he quietly mentioned, experience evident in his voice. He explained after that, in one mere sentence, the extent of his war experience. Anya never brought it up again.

Anya V. Metternich had marched up to the podium on her graduation day to accept her diploma proudly. She held her head high and was fearless. On January 15, 1943, Anya V. Metternich wasn't so brave. She was consciously aware of her femininity, which glaringly stood out in the sea of brown formal uniforms that enveloped her. She was aware of her youth, which she saw as she walked with Dr. Grant toward Colonel Sink in the front of the auditorium. She was aware of her hair, her hips, and the remnants of the scar on her face, which she had so cleverly disguised with make up before her plane landed. 'So, this is combat,' she thought. 'There's a first time for everything.' Now, if one used cigarettes and VAT 69 as motivational rewards for a job well done – and one usually had a job well done – one would think that a nicotine-addicted alcoholic would result. Anya attempted a serious face. She had decided that when she had entered the auditorium, that her own personal Rubicon had been crossed. There would be no ultra-feminine smiles. There would be a serious, "work" face that meant business. And, of course, there would be a cigarette and a drink waiting for her, as the light at the end of the tunnel.

As Dr. Grant and Anya walked down that aisle, to the front of the auditorium, all eyes were indeed on them. It was just like walking late into Algebra class. To the men, the situation seemed absurd. An elderly looking gentleman came in proudly wearing a pin striped suit – and behind him was a rather attractive young woman, who seemed detached from the situation entirely. The men fixated on her, wondering why she was at Toccoa. Maybe she was with the Doctor? No, she was too young. Maybe she was the Doctor's assistant? Maybe not.

Dr. Grant began to speak. He introduced himself as the lecturer on the Pacific. The Pacific was a formal way of saying Japan. A formal way of saying, "There's a very good chance we're going to ship you off to Japan, so we're going to make it sound better by just saying the Pacific. It's warm, there's no snow, and there sure as hell aren't any Krauts." And, of course, the European Theatre was a nice way of saying, "There aren't any Japs here, but we have a whole melting pot of shit that you're going to have to get through. There is no napalm, but you might need a winter coat." There is a nice way to say everything.

Dr. Grant continued, and Dr. Metternich waited patiently. After he finished, Anya carefully walked up to the podium. She sensed confusion and she looked out to the sea of men before you. She looked behind her, to Colonel Sink, and she could read what he was thinking – "Get up there, and say your piece! What, you put on a show for the brass but can't say two bits in front of a bunch of paratroopers? Oh, damn it, doctor, get a move on!" She gave him a look of understanding, and in his face she saw him express what she imagined him to be thinking. That was her cue to begin.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. My name is Dr. Anya Metternich and I've been working with the Independent Research Institute for the past year. In that year, I've compiled a report on the state of affairs in Europe – taking into account past grievances and old problems, potential new issues, and strategies outlining how to deal with potential issues."

"You can't be serious." Luz muttered to Perconte.

"Sweet Jesus, that ain't like any other doctor I've seen before," said Guarnere, nudging Johnny Martin on the shoulder.

"I wonder if she'll check out this pain I've been having on my -- "

"Shhhh, I can't hear her!"

"Shut up, fellas!"

"Oh God damn it, let me listen!"

"What, you never head a speech before?"

The men whispered their exclamations to each other, as Anya continued unaware.

"I've also compiled a list of features relative to the various cultural groups you might encounter if you find yourself in Europe. This information might help you out if you're in a tough spot. Our lecture series will start next week, with an outline of the causes of WWI and a quick synopsis." Anya scanned the crowd before her. She found that she held the attention of nearly all of the men in the room. "And, of course, I promise not to bore you gentlemen." She added this quickly – it was her attempt at humor. Some of the men laughed. Colonel Sink laughed. 'Of course he would,' Anya thought to herself. With those words, Anya stepped away from the podium and sat down in the front row next to Herbert Sobel.

Colonel Sink rose and made his way to the podium and began addressing the men.

"Now, these two doctors are our guests here, and I expect that we'll treat them all with respect. If they were in the military, they'd have the rank of General. 'Nough said. Now, get to it." Sink's words signified the end of the meeting.

The man next to Anya, who would later introduce himself as Herbert Sobel, rose. "EASY COMPANY! WE ARE RUNNING CURRAHEE!" Anya could hear the groans from the men that surrounded her. She recognized the word Curahee from the postcard that Brigadier General Dawson had given her. She could only assume that Curahee was the formal name for the mountain depicted on the photograph. Luckily for her, she had a date with a Lucky Strike and a flask that she had cautiously hidden in her satchel.

She stepped out onto the field and put a cigarette to her lips. She lit it and took a long, satisfied drag. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all. Maybe it wouldn't be _that_ bad. Anya stood still, looking at Curahee's expanse. She contemplated what it would be like to run up the mountain and how long it would take her. She wondered about whether or not Happy Hour at the Rising Sun was busy. She smirked as she reminded herself of the snow that she wouldn't be shoveling. And she wondered, above all, if this was worth it. Her smoke seemed entirely too short. After she finished, she threw the butt down onto the ground and patted it out with her shoe.

The men of Easy Company, who had been groaning earlier, were now in shorts and t-shirts, running past her. A few of them turned their heads and made eye contact. Others pretended not to notice her. Others didn't notice her at all. With the image of Easy moving on past her, she turned her back on the men and set out to find Dr. Grant. She wanted, after all, a cup of coffee and a place to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Bleh. This is the first time this week I've actually had a chance to sit down (for more than 20 minutes), eat a proper meal, etc. It's only the beginning of October and I already have midterms at the end of the month… lame.

**Chapter 3**

Anya had been assigned to the building where all of the big wigs resided, as was Dr. Grant. Her room faced Curahee and she could see its imposing peak in the distance. The room was white and the floors were oak. The wood trimming around the windows and door jams matched the floor. The door that shielded her from the outside world was of a heavier oak than the wood used on the floor. As she dropped her satchel onto the floor she looked at the state of her new living space. It was barren. A bare-bones bed was in the corner. The bedding was olive drab. She saw a night table, an empty book case, a desk, and two lamps. She bit her lip and thought about the decorating that she had ahead of her. It would take a while for this room to turn into a home.

xxxxx

Richard Winters had been talking with Lewis Nixon in the foyer of the building that housed the brass. He saw the woman from the presentation, who he recognized as Dr. Metternich. She walked past the two men without acknowledging them. She appeared to be lost in thought, holding her satchel close to her body. She started walking up the steps to her room, ignorant of her surroundings.

"I wonder if this is wise." Winters stated bluntly, nodding towards the woman that had just walked past them. "Was it too hard to find a man?"

"Eh, she's better to look at than her partner… and there's nothing wrong with that." Nixon replied and looked at him with a smile. He and Nixon had become fast friends in training, yet they were an odd pair. They struggled to completely understand one another. Lewis drank like a fish, while Dick thought such activities were pointless. Their upbringings, goals, and wants were entirely different, yet they hung together. In a world dominated by schedules and an uncertainty of the future, they found a kind of amusement and sense of normality with trying to figure each other out.

"I just don't know if it's the best type of… presence… if you will, to have around the men." Dick expressed a sense of concern. Anybody who knew him knew that it wasn't sexism. He worried about whether or not it would be healthy for an incredibly young woman to be in such an environment, surrounded by men who had not lived that close to female for months.

"Patience, sir, patience. It'll work out. I bet you twenty --"

"You know I don't gamble, Lew." Dick cut his friend off with a slight chuckle.

"You're no fun. I should introduce you to my good friend VAT 69. That'll turn you right around." Lewis patted lightly on his right pocket, alluding to the flask that he had carefully hidden.

"I've already met VAT 69. Your good friend's been living in my foot locker." Shortly after he spoke, Dick heard footsteps behind him. Colonel Sink had appeared, and the two men were about to stand at attention.

"At ease, gentlemen. 'S no bother. The pilot that brought our two new guests here wants to take off, but there is luggage that needs to be removed. Heavy as hell, too. Now, I'm not expecting Dr. Grant to haul that weight, and Dr. Metternich is, well…. I wonder how the hell she even got that crap to the airport in the first place! You're to grab a few men to help unload that cargo. They're both staying on the second floor. You'll find Dr. Grant in room four and Dr. Metternich in room five." Sink looked to both of the men, who took in his words. "As you were." With those words, Sink strode off to attend to other business.

"And here I was about to get a bellhop," Lewis joked. "Ah, fuck it. When I walk outside, the next four men I see get luggage duty. My head hurts so hard I'm seeing lights." Nixon's voice was humorous, but he was serious. He marched out of the Officers' Residence and looked for the first four men he found. The lucky picks were Don Malarkey, Carwood Lipton, and Bill Guarnere. Ronald Speirs had made the mistake of walking by at the very moment that Nixon had picked Malarkey, Lipton, and Guarnere.

"Lieutenant Speirs, can I have a word?" Nixon smiled and spoke in a voice that indicated he wanted something done. Ron Speirs could hear this voice a mile away – no matter the person. It was the "I need shit done, and I don't really care what you're doing" voice. He hated that voice.

"Lieutenant Nixon." Speirs stated plainly, merely acknowledging Nixon's presence in front of him.

"The two doctors that arrived today still have luggage in their airplane that needs to get moved into this building." Nixon didn't even ask a question – there was nothing to question. Asking a question always came with the risk that "no" would be the response. His head hurt too much to hear "no".

Speirs saw where this was going. Perhaps he would have walked off and found another paratrooper, likely one that bothered him, to attempt the task. The appearance of a young woman, younger than many of the men on the base, intrigued him. Her rank – at least in the realm of academia – piqued his interest as well. He was usually a good judge of character. He saw a person and looked that person up and down. He looked into their soul, merely with his eyes, and placed judgment – judgment that was usually impossible to reverse. He found it difficult to read her. He thought that women her age were easy. Their desires, their intentions, their motives… he could usually read them. When it came to Anya V. Metternich, he was drawing a blank.

"Where is the plane?" Speirs asked cooly. He hoped, inwardly, that the luggage he carried would be hers. He hoped that he might run into her, so he could formulate a verdict. What was she like? He wanted to find out. He liked to be knowledgeable when it came to the men – and woman – on his based. He liked knowing _everything_.

"The old guy's in the fourth room and she's in the fifth." Nixon added, before walking away.

xxxxx

Colonel Sink had not lied about the luggage. The men wondered how many things these two people could have possible taken with them. Malarkey didn't know much about aviation, but he wondered how the airplane was able to take off with the weight that it had carried. Lipton, who was rarely found complaining, muttered something about Nixon under his breath. Johnny Martin was reminded of his wife's penchant for over-packing on trips. He thought of home. He thought of what she was wearing and what she was cooking.

Ron Speirs attempted to zone in on luggage that bore the name "Metternich". He carefully singled out three heavy items that belonged to her.

The walk from the plane to the Officers' Residence normally was not very long. With the heavy luggage, the men tried to move as fast as they could. By the time they got to the building, they rested momentarily before making the epic journey up one flight of stairs.

"God damn, fucking stairs." Malarkey swore to himself. Lipton shot him a look of sympathy. Martin still thought of his wife at home. Speirs looked at the stairs as a present that he was about to unwrap. Just one flight, a hallway, and a door, stood in between him and a curvaceous puzzle that he wanted to solve.

The trek up the stairs was made quickly, and the men dropped off the luggage that they had carried in the middle of the hallway.

"I've got this under control. I'll take it from here," Speirs stated. Nobody ever questioned what he said. If he had been the King of England, there would have been no Parliament. His word was the law. He overrode Magna Carta and any potential Bill of Rights. He _was_ the law. Malarkey, Lipton, and Martin had no problem obeying him, however. They were tired. They quickly went back down the stairs, hurrying so that they would avoid getting caught up in further work.

He wanted to go to her room first, but he decided against it. He didn't want to seem overly eager. That wasn't him. What if she had some sort of problem with him not consulting Dr. Grant first? He didn't want to start things off on the wrong foot. Since when did he, Ron fucking Speirs, care about starting shit out on the wrong foot? He wondered if he was growing too soft. He told himself that he wasn't.

He knocked on Dr. Grant's door. Five seconds passed. Ten more followed. Fifteen. The man, much to his pleasure, was out. He walked down the hall further and stopped outside of the fifth room. He collected himself and nonchalantly knocked on the door.

"I'm coming!" He heard her voice through the door. She sounded tired.

The door opened and he saw her. Her hair was down, taken out of a fresh braid. She wasn't wearing any make up and she looked as if she was ready to change into pajamas and go to bed. She looked at him intently.

"And, you are? I recognize you from the presentation today." She inquired, looking at him tiredly.

"Lieutenant Speirs, Dog Company." He replied cooly.

"Ah, a lieutenant!" She said lightly. "Do you need anything?" Ron Speirs needed a lot of things, but he decided it best not to think aloud.

"Lieutenant Nixon requested that your luggage be brought up from the airplane. We brought up yours and Dr. Gra --"

"Shit!" Anya cut him off. "I should have thought about that earlier. I'm sorry." He was taken aback by her vocabulary and hoped that she didn't notice any reaction he might have had. "Let me help you with some of it." She walked out of her room and looked at the imposing pile of luggage that was in the hallway.

He stood directly in front of her and said, quietly, "I can handle it. Just let me know which bags belong in your room." She followed him down the hallway and pointed at the bags.

"No, really, I can help. You've been kind enough already." She felt pretty terrible about leaving all of her heavy luggage on the plane. She felt even worse about the thought of a bunch of soldiers going out of their way to lug it all up to her room.

"So be it," he stated, as if it didn't matter to him anymore. Anya walked towards one of the bags and began dragging it towards her room. Ron looked at her with amusement. She was one of those types. He sensed that she felt threatened by her environment, and she didn't want to appear weak. She turned to him and caught him smiling at her.

"What are you smiling about, Lieutenant Speirs?!" she asked, slightly annoyed with his response to her desire to help him out. Her fatigue was getting the best of her – the point where she was getting catty. Her reaction to his smile only made Ron more amused. She was putting up a defense. She definitely was one of _those_ types.

"I'm merely observing. I'll get the rest." She had retreated to her room and sat down after she finished toting in one piece of luggage. She needed sleep more than anything. She tiredly observed the Lieutenant lift and place the luggage in her room, noticing his physical strength and his attention to detail. Everything to him seemed like an operation that needed to be completed to the greatest of his ability. Even in her fatigue, she admired that. In him, she saw a piece of herself.

As he was hoisting the luggage into her room, he saw her sitting at the table in the room's corner. She was tiredly watching him bring in her suitcases and boxes. She seemed oblivious, however, to the little glances he was sneaking at her. He observed her face and the way she seemed at peace. He looked at her green eyes, which seemed glassed over with her impending night's sleep. He observed her hair and her skin. He looked at her cheekbones. He saw the faint remnants of a scar peeking out of her carefully applied make up. The origins of the scar interested him. It was not, and he knew it was not, any of his business. He was interested, however.

Her room's window stared out over the training fields and framed Curahee, which stood in the distance. After placing her last piece of luggage on her floor, he walked over to the window and looked out into the night. He stood there for a moment and then turned to her.

"Dr. Metternich --"

"Anya. It's Anya." She cut him off loudly, and her sudden loudness took him by surprise. She was lost in thought and he had pulled her out of her reverie.

"Well, Anya, you're all set. Have a good night." Before he could leave the room, she rose from her chair and walked towards him.

"Thank you Lieutenant Speirs… and please thank the other men that helped you carry all of that from the plane. You didn't have to."

"It's done now. I suppose I'll see you in class."

"Of course. And, this goes without saying, but you better not be late!" Anya joked, and he smiled slightly.

"Right, of course. Just like you were early to the presentation this morning."

"I'm the teacher. Teachers are allowed to be late." She retorted, as if she was joking around with a friend or a co-worker. She saw him smirk, and he turned to leave.

"And Anya?" He turned his head to look at her. "It's Ron." He disappeared from sight, shutting the door behind him.

She saw that he might be trouble. He looked to good in his uniform _not_ to be trouble. She cursed the situation and wondered what it would be like if she had been an ordinary woman. Would Speirs of been different if he saw her at the Rising Sun? Would he have approached her? She pushed those thoughts out of her head as she bent down to open the suitcase that contained her clothes. Finding her pajamas, she slid out of her suit and threw it on the floor. She'd deal with issues pertaining to laundry tomorrow. It didn't matter now. She welcomed the feeling of her pajamas on her cold skin and proceeded to sit on her bed. Slinking smoothly under her olive drab bed sheets, she got comfortable. She fell asleep soon afterwards.

Ron, after he had closed her door, smiled to himself. He smiled the type of smile that nobody ever saw. The type that he kept in private. The hallway was dark and he seemed pleased with himself and the information that he had discovered. He walked further down the hall, practically bumping into Dr. Grant's luggage. 'Oh, for fuck's sake,' he cursed in his head, realizing that he still had to give that old bastard his bags.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Hey everybody. After reading through my past chapters, I've noticed that I incorrectly spell Currahee a few times. Oooops. Alas, the story continues…

**Chapter 4**

January in Georgia had proven to be snowless. Anya saw the barren trees hugging the mountain of Currahee, as she stood at her window gazing into the distance. She observed men marching on the parade field, as well as men running towards the barren, wooded mountain. She saw a black haired man driving a Jeep towards Currahee's base, as if to taunt the men running after him. "Always trying to pull rank. School yard bullshit," Anya said aloud to herself.

The sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and p8ink, which offset the cold breeze that swept through the barren trees, even permeating the thin glass window that separated Anya from the military world before her.

She had arranged her room to resemble her office at the Independent Research Institute. Upon entering her room, a bed was on the far right, against the wall. The large bay window was guarded by a leviathan oak desk. A swiveling leather chair stood between the desk and the window, a place which Anya felt was most convenient. When she was bored or in need of inspiration, she would swivel from her desk to the window. The Georgian expanse which stood majestically before her provided her with a sense of relief and normality.

Anya was seated in her swivel chair, curled up with a book and a glass of Vat 69. She had been pulled away from her reading by the faint sounds of life that she had heard through the glass.

A knock on her door had slightly startled her, pulling her out of her reverie. She continued to gaze over the training field, and mechanically answered "Enter" to the knock, as if she was wholly unaware of the words she had spoken. She heard the door open softly. It was closed with the same amount of care.

"I hear we have a mutual friend, doctor," she heard a silken male voice state, as a matter of rock solid fact.

Anya swiveled to face the voice. Lewis Nixon took in the young woman before him. She was curled up in her chair, dwarfed by a larger-than-life desk, coolly nursing a glass of his beloved Vat 69 while holding a well-worn copy of _Anna Karenina_. Anya recognized the man and smiled softly.

"Lieutenant Nixon." She stated plainly. She looked at him with wide inquisitive eyes.

"Doctor Metternich." He answered.

"Anya. It's Anya." She corrected him. "Oh, but if you're sitting in my class, you bet your Lucky Strikes it's doctor! I can't have a student undermining my authority!" She joked. Nixon responded with a chuckle.

"As for our mutual friend…" He nodded toward the rocks class that she delicately held in her hand. "A lovely gentleman informed me that you happen to be a consumer of a very fine whiskey…" He continued.

"And, pray tell, who was this gentleman?" Anya feigned curiosity and looked inquisitively towards the tall Lieutenant.

"None other than your colleague, Dr. Grant." The banter between the two had assumed an air of sarcastic formality, which the they both reveled in.

"That old bastard!" Anya responded quickly, with feigned disgust. Anya put her glass down on her desk, and opened up the bottom drawer. "Now, I don't usually do this…" She went on and pulled out a second rocks glass. She then procured a bottle from the same drawer and placed it on the table.

"Do you usually keep a bar in your room?" Lewis Nixon asked sarcastically. He watched Anya carefully pour a glass of his favorite whiskey. She slid the glass across her desk and motioned for Nixon to come towards her.

"Take a seat, Lieutenant." Lewis Nixon didn't need to be asked twice. He made himself comfortable and took the glass of whiskey into his hand. "I left the full bar in New York of course, but then I got invited to this lovely place. Now I'm working out of a drawer." Nixon sympathized with Anya.

"Tell me about it. I'm working out of a footlocker." Anya winced when she heard the words. "If I get to call you Anya, you get to call me Lew, by the way. Whenever you say Lieutenant I feel like you're speaking to somebody that's sneaked up behind me." Anya flashed him a knowing smile, and she took a satisfying sip from her glass.

"Of course. It took a while to get used to "doctor", but now I rather enjoy it. I feel a sense of… satisfaction, almost, in seeing how surprised people get." She went on, this time taking a Lucky Strike from the box sitting on her desk. "Care for one?" Lew nodded and gave Anya a slight smirk.

"I take it you don't get around much out here." Lew commented, taking note of how freely she was giving away her whiskey and cigarettes.

"They keep me damned busy. I usually just keep to my room, going through my lesson plans, looking over reports… Hardly glamorous… But what can you expect?" As Anya talked with Nixon, she wondered why she had taken this job in the first place. Part of her was realizing that this was to prove herself in her field. She wanted to be respected, above all. She also didn't want to let Brigadier General Dawson down. He was like a father to her.

"It's a strange job to want, don't you think? Do you think you'll have any success with these men? Most of them haven't been to college and don't care to go. Most of them self-admittedly don't 'read too good'. What makes you think they're interested?" Lew was curious, above all.

"Well, I've taught before… briefly… but it was in a university, part of my postgraduate study… teaching the undergraduates… You've been to college?" She asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Yale." Nixon stated, aware that for once, a woman he spoke with was not impressed by that four letter word.

"This isn't going to be your typical college bullshit, Lew." Anya stated bluntly. Lew raised an eyebrow and looked at her intently. "It's important. And, honestly, I think some of the men will be surprised by how much of this they'll find to be interesting."

"You think?" Lew raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm positive. And, of course, I finagled an arrangement with the good Colonel. I'll be giving quizzes and tests, you know. And, the arrangement… I'm sure the men will find it to their liking. Great performance in my class will earn them rewards, ranging from movies to weekend passes. People are going to _want_ to pay attention." Anya gave Lew a genuine smile. She had been pleased with the arrangement she had worked out between herself and Colonel Sink. He was reluctant at first, but she assured him that it was a good idea that would improve the morale of the men.

"Well, I'm not kidding when I say that I'm looking forward to seeing how this will work out." Lew finished his glass of Vat 69 and placed lightly on the desk.

"And I'm not kidding when I tell you that you'll be surprised."

"I bet you a pack of Luck—"

"I don't gamble." Anya cut him off before he could finish. Lew gave her an award winning grin and got up from his seat.

"Well, Anya Metternich, I'm certainly glad we have a friend in common."

"As am I. Nobody else I know will touch the stuff." Anya thought of the surprised looks she got back at the Rising Sun. They had ended up stocking Vat 69 solely for her.

"Eh, that leaves more for us." Lew replied, and Anya smiled.

"I like the sound of that."

"Anya, how old are you?" Lew asked suddenly, and the question surprised Anya.

"Twenty one, Lew. Twenty one." Saying those words made her feel young for the first time. She felt , for once, like a child playing a grown up's game. She pushed those thoughts of her head and looked up to Nixon.

"Just promise me you won't get yourself stolen."

"Aye aye, General Patton." Anya gave a mock solute, to which Nixon laughed out. He nodded and made his way out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: Just so everybody knows, I'm well aware that Dog and Easy Company's were rather large when it came to fitting into a lecture hall (apparently Easy had over 130 enlisted men in it!), so I'm taking liberty here by making the two groups into a more manageable number. I hope that sits well with y'all.

Oh… and I mean no disrespect to Sobel, as he is _definitely_ being cast as the villain here. Note that this depiction of him will be based on David Schwimmer's portrayal of Sobel.

**Chapter 5**

The men filed into the classroom, unsure of what to expect from their 9 AM lecture. Anya sat casually in her chair, wearing a tweed pair of pants and a matching jacket, which covered her black turtleneck sweater. She avoided the constraints of the military environment surrounding her by carefully applying makeup and coiffing her hair. She had covered the scar on her face with the precision of the surgeon. Today was a day for confidence, not self-consciousness.

A large table sat at the front of the class room, right before the chalk board. On top of it was a large box full of notebooks and pencils. Next to the box lay copies of _Mein Kampf_, _All Quiet on the Western Front_, and _A Farewell to Arms_. Some of the men looked to the table curiously, with a sense of excitement. Others winced at the sight of the books, hoping that there would be no assigned reading.

The men of Dog Company sat on the left side of the lecture hall, while Easy men sat on the right. Anya saw that they were self-segregating themselves. She also looked out for friendly faces in the sea of brown formal uniforms. She saw Lew, who was sitting front row on the right. She instantly recognized Lieutenant Speirs – Ron, as she remembered – sitting in one of the left middle rows.

"So it's true, then." Guarnere made a comment to Perconte, sitting next to him. "It's for real."

"You ain't ever had a woman teacher before, Gonorrhea?" Perconte quipped.

"Yeah, but it wasn't like this! She's a real professor. Old Colonel Sink's the reason she's here." The men listened to him, still tired from their morning run up Currahee.

The men chatted to each other, while Anya kept an eye on the clock. Winters looked at his watch. Nixon thumbed over the small flask of Vat 69 in his pocket. Ronald Speirs looked at Anya, studying her mannerisms, all the while attempting to mask his interest. Anya waited until 9:05 to start, allowing time for any stragglers to make their way in. She would remember, later, that in the military there was no straggling.

"Good morning, gentlemen." She said loudly, which silenced the men. Their eyes all travelled to the front of the room, locked on Anya's presence. "I'm Dr. Metternich, as I'm sure you've all heard by now. You can call me 'Doc' or 'Doctor', whichever you prefer. Those who weren't asleep at the presentation last week will remember that I'm from the Independent Research Institute in New York – and I've prepared a lot of useful information while there. Some of you _might_ even find it interesting. Our class will meet on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 9 AM, for an hour and a half. If for some reason I can't be here, Dr. Grant will be teaching in my place. I'm going to pass down stacks of notebooks, with some pencils. Everybody take one, got it?" Anya then began to distribute class materials to the men in the front rows, who passed the materials to the back of the room.

"So," Anya continued. "We're at war." The men burst out laughing, and she saw Ron raise his eyebrows. Lew looked at her with a smile. "Pretty surprising, I know…" She continued.

"But, if you study history, you wouldn't be surprised. It actually would make sense. If you look back to 1919, it actually becomes obvious. I'm not going to start back at the formation of the German state, which I am sure another lecturer might bore _his_ students with." Some of the men laughed, appreciating her humor. "I don't want to start there. I don't think it matters. I'm not concerned with old kings or Kaisers, a country coming into being, or any of that. I'm not going to bore you with who was in charge in 1848, or the state of the monarchy. Honestly, I just don't give a damn… It's history." The room was silent, and the men were captivated.

"We're starting with 1919 because our failures in 1919 are the reason why we're fighting Germany again. History, you see, matters. What we didn't deal with properly in 1919 – what we let happen in the twenties – and what we are seeing today, goose-stepping through Poland… they're all related. Raise your hand if you know somebody who fought in World War I." Anya looked across the room and saw more than seventy five percent of the men in the room raise their hands. Anya raised her hand as well, perhaps as a show of solidarity. "You can put our hands down. Open your notebooks and get your pencil ready. We begin with 1919 and I'm not stopping for stragglers."

Dick Winters cast a glance to Lewis Nixon, who was smiling profusely. 'The woman doesn't disappoint. Not one damned bit,' he said inwardly.

"She ain't kiddin'!" Perconte whispered, while Luz feigned a moan, which Anya heard.

"If you can run up that damned mountain in full on gear, I'm sure this won't be a problem." Luz threw her a charming smile and the men in Easy chuckled. "How far is that run, by the way?" Anya questioned, attempting some gallows humor.

"THREE MILES UP, THREE MILES DOWN!" shouted the right side of the room. Herbert Sobel was in the front row. Anya saw that he kept silent. Herbert Sobel, at 9:12 AM on the 16th of February in the year of 1943, had decided that he did not care much for Dr. Anya Violet Metternich. Sobel didn't approve of the smoking, drinking, woman-professor from New York City, who attempted to make an example out of him. He saw what she was doing – undermining his authority. He scowled at her, which unbeknownst to him, she briefly took note of. Anya, at 9:12 AM, had decided that she could play hardball. The men of Dog and Easy Company saw this and internalized it. Dog Company and Easy Company, at 9:12 AM on an unusually chilly Georgia morning, saw they had an ally in Dr. Anya Violet Metternich. Bill Guarnere had decided that he would defend her. Lewis Nixon had acknowledged that this was not 'university bullshit', as Anya called it. Dick Winters, a man known for keeping his emotions in check, had decided that Anya Metternich would fare well at Toccoa after all. Ronald Speirs, however, did not know what to make of the young woman before him. At 9:12 AM on the 16th of February, Ronald Speirs had finally come to the conclusion that he was actively interested in Anya Violet Metternich.

Anya's quick words refocused the attention of the room.

"If you can run that damned mountain, you can ace this class! So we begin…. In 1919, World War I had ended. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Germany surrendered to the Allied Forces. Our president at the time, Woodrow Wilson, envisioned a..." Anya continued to speak, and the men scribbled down notes.

Her lectures would last for an hour and a half. She had decided after Lewis Nixon left her room the week before, she would start with 1919. She was determined to keep the material interesting and to not lose the attention of the men that were in her classroom. She was also motivated by Sobel's presence in her classroom. No doubt he thought her presence at Toccoa was stupid and a waste of precious resources. She could sense that he saw no purpose in her lectures – she saw that he felt the men would be more useful jogging up mountains, or being berated for drinking from their canteens. So, as this man sat in the front row of her classroom, she was determined to prove him wrong.

Anya continued through her lecture, explaining President Wilson's desires in Europe – his Fourteen Points, his League of Nations, and his ambitions. She went over the Treaty of Versailles, which she and other esteemed historians had deemed an abject failure.

"We call this period, following WWI, the Weimar period. The Treaty of Versailles, which I explained earlier in the hour, was a total failure." There were ten minutes left in the lecture. Anya was determined to get through the material. "You see, I explained the reparations to you all, the mandates that the Allies had required of Germany… How Germans were forbidden from maintaining armed forces, how the Rhineland could not be militarized… And now, I will explain to you why this whole thing failed. It failed because France was overly eager to punish Germany. Britain, however, felt bad. They felt guilty, almost, for punishing Germany, and they wouldn't support France. The British backed out on their end of the deal, and left the French to themselves. And as for our place in all of this… The American government didn't want any of what Woodrow Wilson had prescribed, and they pursued a policy of isolationism. France alone wasn't strong enough to go after Germany. Britain didn't fulfill its part of the deal… and the United States, possibly the only nation with enough bargaining power, was understandably sick of Europe – and sick of cleaning up after the mess they had created in the first place. In sum, we are at war due to old problems – most of which nobody followed through by nipping in the bud – have come home to roost." Some of the men looked satisfied, as few people actually thought about the Treaty of Versailles in that fashion. Herbert Sobel saw this as his chance to make a fool of the professor.

Sobel raised his hand, and Anya nodded.

"You see, _ma'am_, I had thought you'd take a different approach on this topic.."

"Doctor." Anya corrected. The tension in the room was growing. "You have _my_ permission to go on. Explain."

"Well, _doctor_," he emphasized, "I would think that a German woman would argue that Germany was a victim of the brutal desires of the United States, France, and Great Britain. It would only make sense."

Lewis Nixon dropped his mouth open. Ronald Speirs' eyes widened. George Luz choked on his breath. Carwood Lipton worried, for the first time in his career at Toccoa, for Sobel's life. Don Malarkey averted his eyes from Anya and focused on a spot on the chalkboard. Johnny Martin looked up from his notebook and started at Anya with disbelief. Bull Randleman thought about who would win – Sobel or Anya – in the event of a fight.

"I see, sir. How should I address you? Your name?" Anya asked, calmly.

"_Lieutenant_ Herbert Sobel."

"Impressive! A lieutenant!" Anya said, which caused a few men in class to nervously chuckle. "While I appreciate your attentiveness and the great thought you've poured into your comment, I regret to inform you that I am, in fact, of Dutch descent. Lieutenant Sobel, it would be wise in our future lessons to think less about me about more about the material I'm teaching. If this is going to be a problem, then you might want to consider transferring to a different class." There was no laughter. George Luz normally would have made a wise-ass comment. No wise-ass comment followed Anya's calm berating of Sobel. Muck and Penkala would have laughed heartily, but no noises escaped them. There was a dead silence in the room. And Bull Randleman, at that point in time, had decided that in the event of a fight, Anya had some ole' Arkansas spirit that would see her through to victory – and Bull Randleman was a damn fine judge of character.

Herbert Sobel, for the first time since arriving in Toccoa, was red in the face. He didn't look back at the men sitting behind him. He didn't give two shits about what Dog Company thought – to Hell with Dog Company. He refused to look at the men from Easy. The bastards behind him weren't going to get away with this.

As far as Anya was concerned, her prior joking was in good humor. A man without a sense of humor – say, Herbert Sobel – might have taken some of her jokes the wrong way. A man big enough to let bygones be bygones might have gotten over it. Herbert Sobel was no such man. Sobel, in her eyes, had done the unthinkable. He had accused her of German allegiance – of going against everything she believed in. He had insinuated that she felt sympathy for the nation that had deprived her parents' homeland of peace and stability and he had done so for the sole purpose of making an example of her in front of her students. At 10:26 AM, Herbert Sobel had crossed an invisible line, and there was no going back.

Anya coughed lightly, and regained the full attention of the class room.

"I think that all about sums up the material for this lecture." Anya stated without emotion, in an attempt to diffuse the situation in the room. "I hope you all took notes." Anya stated, and looked across the room. Some men looked worries. Others looked confident.

"And, here's where my fun comes in! You have a quiz next class." Anya's statements were interrupted with groans. "And, of course, this is where _your_ fun comes in. Those who get a perfect score on the quiz will have their names put into a hat. The man whose name I pick gets a Friday night pass, courtesy of the good Colonel Sink. Note taking and paying attention is rewarding. The first reward, of course, is the knowledge that you'll take with you. Don't under estimate that. After negotiating with Colonel Sink, we've struck a deal. There will be rewards for those who do well. Films, passes, socials… These things are up to you men – however, Colonel Sink will only approve if he sees results." Hook. Line. Sinker. Anya had captured the school of fish sitting before her.

Some of the men whistled, while others looked on with a sense of satisfaction. Dick Winters cocked an eyebrow towards Anya when he heard her say the words "negotiate" and "Colonel Sink" in the same sentence. Lewis Nixon had decided that he would never question Anya again. Ronald Speirs tried his hardest not to smile.

"And, on a side note, there are some interesting books I have at the front of the class. I don't expect you to read them, but if you're into that sort of thing, be my guest. Class is dismissed."

The men broke into quiet chatter as they rose from their seats and went to leave the lecture hall.

She noticed a man – who she would later be introduced to as David Webster – approach the books on the table at the front of the room. He looked at her, as if to ask for approval, when he held the red-bound copy of _Mein Kampf_ in his hands. Anya nodded to the man and smiled.

Anya had looked pleased with herself, but tried her very hardest not to let it show through her stern facial expression. She made eye contact with Lew and they both silently acknowledged her victory.

Herbert Sobel took this has his cue. He knew what he had to do, and he was more than prepared to do it.

"EASY COMPANY! Attention!" The men stood at attention, dreading the words that would spill out of Sobel's lips. They knew the drill. "We're running Currahee! You have five minutes to meet me on the parade ground ready to run! DISMISSED!" The men of Easy groaned, while the men of Dog Company laughed.

The men left the room, but Anya could hear the conversations outside.

"Ah, we'll get a head start on the notes, guys! Have fun!" stated one Dog Company man, as if to make the Easy men jealous.

"And when I get that weekend pass, there won't be any dames left for you chumps!" joked another guy.

"Hey asshole! I heard you weren't into dames!" George Luz shouted back. The men of Easy Company roared with laughter.

"You know, shithead, ladies _love_ a man with stamina!" shouted Perconte, at the top of his lungs, getting back at the men in Dog Company.

Anya heard the voices get softer as the men got farther away from her classroom. Herbert Sobel had left with the men of Easy. Anya felt a sense of relief. Lew and Winters didn't have time to chat after class, as they had a mountain to contend with.

Anya, while relieved, felt as if Sobel had tried to one-up her by using the men to anger her. Perhaps if she hadn't joked with Sobel in the first place, the men wouldn't have to run the mountain. Perhaps things would have been different. Maybe the camaraderie that she had attempted to establish between herself and the men were removed by Sobel's command. Anya sat down at her desk and looked at her date book, attempting to let any prospective appointments and assignments take her mind off of Sobel's words. _That fucking bastard. Meeting with Sink tomorrow at noon. Son of a fucking bitch. Appointment with Dr. Grant over coffee tomorrow at four. Piece of shit. A date with Anna Karenina – dinner, my swivel chair, good old Vat 69 straight up, the view of Currahee. Currahee…. That son of a fucking bitch! For fuck's sake! There's a pack of Lucky's in my bag. A Zippo in my coat pocket. Almost out. Almost free. That piece of fucking shit._

While she was lost in her thoughts, she was unaware that one man remained in the lecture hall.

"You know, we're here to run. We're here to ask 'how far', and follow. We're soldiers." Anya recognized that voice. _Ron. _She had tried to avoid looking at him during class. She didn't feel it was appropriate, as she found him far beyond aesthetically pleasing. Looking at his facial features aroused a sense of excitement within her. He had a sense of ruggedness about him, as if his face had been carved by the same majestic forces that carved the silhouette of Currahee. He was larger than her, and his presence accentuated her petite frame. His stoic build enhanced her own awareness of her breasts and her hips.

"I don't see you running, Lieutenant." She answered quietly, attempting to appear distant from the man in front of her. She had a position to uphold. She had a reputation – even if it had just been tarnished by that bastard Sobel – to protect. She couldn't get involved.

"I wasn't asked to." Ron answered truthfully.

"I see. I can't stand that son of a bitch." Anya lamented, as she put her hands across her chest.

"Sobel?" Ron asked, with a smile. Anya took note of the way his lips curved, and discovered that she rather liked his smile.

"That would be him. He'll probably complain about me to Sink, you know. That schoolyard bullshit that all of those brown-nosers get into. I've seen his type before." Anya looked tired and slightly put off.

"He may very well do that. He's at a distinct disadvantage, however, Doctor. You have two companies of men who witnessed him accuse of you of treason. That counts for something."

"I told you to call me Anya, Lieutenant." Anya corrected, playfully. _Well, this doesn't mean I'm involved. I'm being friendly. Not involved. Friendly. There's a difference_.

"And I told you to call me Ron, Doctor." He smiled again, which Anya took note of.

"Your smile suits you very well, Ron. You should do it more often."

"Ah, but did Caligula smile? Nobody questioned him." Ron retorted.

"Ron, you're likening yourself to Caligula? A man who appointed a horse as one of his advisors?" Anya laughed. She looked at Ron. For a brief moment, their eyes locked. In that brief moment, Anya felt a sense of danger. She felt a desire to allow herself to taste the very danger which she perceived – yet she felt constrained by her duty.

"You're a very wise woman, Anya." Ron stated, looking into her eyes. "I've been accused of being cold. Overly analytical. Emotionless. But I see who you are. You want approval more than anything. You want the men to respect you, and you want to feel a sense of belonging. Open your eyes and look around you. The men don't doubt you. Don't doubt yourself."

Anya was unsure of what to make of Ron's comments. It would seem that he supported her. That _he_ – Ronald Speirs – approved of her. The man that stood before her – the man who she knew nothing about – had piqued her interest beyond belief.

Ron flashed a brief smile, which put color into Anya's cheeks. She felt the need to retreat from the situation. She was speeding down a high way and she could see danger signs approaching.

With those words, he had left her flustered – which she desperately hoped he had not noticed. Anya watched his form as he walked away, toward the door, to leave the lecture hall. Before she could turn away, he looked at her one last time.

"And, Anya?" She nodded, and he continued. "Flushed cheeks suit you very well." He turned around before he could get a reaction out of her, and he left the room.

Anya felt parts of her body throb in ways that they had not done so before. She felt urges that had rarely come to her. Her cheeks were indeed red, and she looked down at her date book in an attempt to remove herself from the situation. She had work. She was a teacher. He was a student – _her _student. She was teaching in a military environment. He was a soldier. They were both under the same leadership; they had the same boss. In essence, they were coworkers. Anya felt as if she was being pulled in two different directions.

Throughout her academic life, she stayed true to her goals. She prevented herself from engaging in relationships that might have held her down. Her father had understood these goals. When he died, she resigned herself to earning her Ph.D. at any cost. Her mother, who had once been reluctant to support her daughter's academic interests, began to see Anya as an extension of her father. Anya was encouraged and motivated to do what she had to do and not to settle down – a teaching contrary to that which most young women her age had received.

The feelings that Ronald Speirs had aroused within her led her to question her resolve. She could tell that he was interested in her. Though she was attractive – and remained so even with her scar – she was usually overlooked in favor of more outgoing girls who were less focused on books and writing dissertations. The male attention made her feel distinctly feminine. She was unsure of how to move forward.

There had been one other man in her life. That graduate student, Max, from Columbia. After being with him, she felt like she had grown up substantially. He was a history student as well, pursuing a Ph.D. in the same field as herself. Max, upset by the possibility of Anya upstaging him academically, left her. She went above and beyond for that immature young man. She gave him her body – part of herself – something which she still, to this cold February day, regretted.

Anya Violet, a young woman who wanted approval and respect, was also afraid of getting hurt. Ron added fuel to this fiery fear within her.

After Ron had left the lecture hall, she decided that she would try to back off and proceed with caution. After Anya had decided this, she packed her satchel and made her way out of the lecture hall. As she exited the building, she pulled a cigarette from her bag and her Zippo from her coat pocket. She lit a damn fine satisfying cigarette and let the smoke warm her body. She felt the heat radiate throughout her very being, and she exhaled with a sense of relief.

The cigarette, to Anya, didn't last long enough. She threw it on the ground and stamped it out with her foot.

She looked out into the distance and saw the men of Easy Company running towards Currahee. They were wearing full on gear. She squinted and she saw a greasy haired man driving a military issued Jeep, far ahead of the men. _Fucking bastard_.

Anya turned around from the sight before and walked towards the Officers' Residence. She had work to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks everybody for all of the looooovely reviews. I love feedback, so keep it coming. I can actually move on to this chapter now that midterms are over.

Just so you know, I'm letting this story take it's time and I'm going to establish my characters.

**Chapter 6**

The mornings at Toccoa, Anya noted, always came too soon. Her morning routine consisted of a hot shower, getting dressed, doing makeup, and then running down to the Officers' Cafeteria to grab breakfast. Anya was one of the few women on the base. She religiously dressed in a composed – never disheveled – manner, blew her hair dry after her shower, and applied makeup. Some might have thought it was foolish. Going through the motions made her feel professional. It made her feel like she was back home. It meant the world to her.

Anya had left her room in a hurry after getting the finishing touches done on her makeup. She was sure to carry her satchel with her to breakfast – she always liked to be one step ahead of the game. She was in the process of drafting the quiz that she would give the men for tomorrow's class. Anya wondered to herself who would end up winning the weekend pass. She had hoped that quite a few men would score very well on the exam. Colonel Sink would see the results – and the results would reflect both well on the men and on her. She wanted to ensure that Sink didn't think she was a waste of space.

Anya got in line at the cafeteria and proceeded to pick up a small portion of scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, and a cup of coffee. She found a seat and opened up her date book next to her tray of food. She had a meeting with Colonel Sink that afternoon at one o'clock, in addition to coffee with Dr. Grant at four o'clock. She smiled thinking about how she was going to be spending happy hour with her coworker. Times were different.

&&&&&&&

Anya, surprisingly, felt no sense of fear on her walk to Sink's office. She went up to his secretary and gave her name. She sat down by Sink's door to wait for him. She played with the frayed edges of her satchel. Anya hated waiting. She hated it more than anything.

"Dr. Metternich," a voice bellowed from a door that had become slightly ajar.

Anya strode into the room confidently. She saw Colonel Sink sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar. She smiled to him, and he returned the gesture. Anya knew that Sink was a reasonable man. She hoped, however, that he had not heard about her exchange with Lieutenant Sobel in yesterday's class. He motioned for her to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his mahogany desk.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Metternich." Sink welcomed her.

"Likewise, Colonel." Anya responded. She liked Sink – she could sense from the way he talked to her that he respected her and viewed her as an equal, not a subordinate.

"So, how is Georgia treating you?"

"Better than New York would be. I hear there's two feet of snow on the ground. It's much more preferable here." Anya stated, smilingly. She eyed Sink curiously, and after a short second of deliberation, she reached into her satchel. "Do you mind?" She asked, pulling a Lucky Strike out of its carton.

"And aren't you a bold one!" Sink exclaimed. "Go on, Doctor." Anya smiled in response, while Sink extended a Zippo in her direction. It was at that moment she realized that she and Sink were allies. At that moment, Anya realized that if Sobel was an issue in today's meeting, Sink would be sympathetic to her.

"How do you feel about the classes?" He asked, cutting to the chase.

"The men are eager to learn, Colonel." She responded. After the first class and Sobel's retaliation – making the men run up Currahee in spite of her – she felt obligated to do what she could to defend the men's honor.

"Sir will do! You're not enlisted, Doctor." Sink corrected her with a smile.

"Yes, but you still have to call me Doctor." Anya said, with a wink. Sink chuckled. "As I said, the men are eager to learn. I've never had a class of that size before… or of such a diverse background. The men seem very motivated. They'll do well."

"I'm glad. What are you teaching right now, if I may ask?"

"Of course, sir. Yesterday I started with the end of World War I. That's pretty much why we're here right now, so I figured there was no better place to start."

"I see. That sounds very interesting… Tomorrow's plan?"

"A quiz." She answered, lightly.

"I like you, Dr. Metternich. I think you'll find that I'm very reasonable. You know, I caught hell for suggesting that you come here. But I saw your passion. And Brigadier General Dawson – he spoke very highly of you. I'm happy to have you here at Toccoa. You and Dr. Grant are fine additions. I can tell already." He said in a knowing voice.

"Thank you, sir. That's a rather nice compliment, you know." Anya said shyly.

"And the rewards we've devised?" he enquired.

"Yes, of course. The highest scorers from tomorrow's quiz get their names in a hat. Friday morning, I'm picking one name. That gentleman gets a pass for that night."

"Any idea for tomorrow's lecture?"

"Yes, but if I told you, I'd spoil the surprise." Anya stated in a cheeky fashion.

"Is that an invitation?" he said, with a raised eyebrow.

"Sir, you're more than welcome to come and sit in on a class. It'd be best to come in after the first fifteen minutes. That is… unless you'd also like to take the quiz." She stated, cheekily.

"I'll be there, no bother. That's about it for the meeting, Doctor. I just wanted to see how our little history project is going."

"Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow in class. Come armed with a pencil and paper!" She joked.

"Oh, and Doctor?"

"Yes, sir?"

"He's just a man. Don't let him get to you." Anya and Sink locked eyes, and she knew what he meant.

"Thank you, sir. I'll see you tomorrow. The quiz is at nine o'clock sharp – and I'll begin my lesson at 9:15!"

Sink nodded, and Anya walked out of the door. _That wasn't so bad after all_, she thought. _Not too shabby._

&&&&&&&

Anya had decided that she and Dr. Grant would have coffee in one of the lounges in the Officers' Residences. He would be there at four, and she showed up early.

Dr. Grant, to Anya, was largely an enigma. With every encounter they shared, she further pieced together information about him. She treated each one of their meetings like a research assignment, with the eventual hope of actually figuring him out. She had known about his service in World War I, but it took her ages to get that out of him. She had known that he was from Bangor, Maine, but she knew little else about him – save for his penchant for pin striped suits and pocket watches.

Dr. Grant strolled into the lounge dressed head to toe in a dark tweed suit that had leather elbow patches. _Characteristically academic, elbow patches and all_, Anya mused. _Elbow patches and all._ Dr. Grant took a seat across from Anya who was sitting at a small table. There was a hot metal pot of coffee, along with two cups. Dr. Grant, like Anya, drank his coffee black without sweetener.

"Doctor." He stated with a sense of amusement.

"Doctor." She answered.

"I was on the telephone with my younger sister this morning. Six feet of snow in Bangor. Six feet."

"Jesus Christ." Anya muttered. "Two feet in New York. It's a bastard trying to get from my apartment to work and back. I'm enjoying the lack of winter weather here."

"Aye, we are rather fortunate. How is your class faring?" He asked, with a sense of curiosity. He had a handlebar moustache, and he waxed its tips. He was a very quirky old man – a man who stood out like a sore thumb. His look was kind and left one with a sense of nostalgia – back to a time when things were quite different.

"It's an interesting experience, James. A lot of the men haven't finished high school… but they're really interested and they seem to be doing well. I guess I'll truly find out when I see the results from the quiz I have planned for tomorrow."

"A quiz, already?" James Grant asked in a tone of mock surprise.

"Why yes… a quiz… Would you care to take it as well? I already have Colonel Sink coming in tomorrow! The more the merrier. Say, let's make it some big historical party." Anya joked.

"I like Colonel Sink. He's a very good man and he makes wise decisions. He's a good leader." James hesitated. "This place takes me back in time."

"Back to when?" Anya asked quickly. Dr. James Grant was her research project.

"A very long time ago. Nobody seems to remember it now."

"I would remember." Anya declared, boldly.

"You weren't alive." James countered, sensibly.

"But I'm a historian, James. It's my job to remember." Anya's statement made the old man smile.

"1916." James went on.

"That's only long ago because our society has chosen to forget about it. It's not fashionable. You know as well as I, that what we think about that war is shaped by public opinion. What we have heard in the news…. That god damned war."

"It's a bastard's game. I see myself in some of these men." His tone of voice grew soft.

"Yeah? You have feelings of sympathy?"

"It depresses me. I find myself awake at night, thinking of mustard gas and a sickening fog. I only sleep after I pray to God that these men won't fight in trenches. It would break my heart." James' eyes looked wet, and he spoke in a quiet tone.

"You were at the Somme." Anya stated bluntly.

"Yes." His answer was plain – without emotion.

"I'm sorry." Anya said, looking down into the black cup that she held in her hands.

"You didn't order me there, Anya. You have nothing to be sorry about." James took a pensive sip from his coffee.

"What did you think you fought for, James?"

"The man who slept next to me in the trench… The boy who ran with me one hundred feet over open territory, as we were being shot at mercilessly… The man who helped me put on my gas mask before it was too late…. The Star-Spangled Banner, if it meant anything… The man who died next to me… That's what we fought for. There was _nothing_ else to fight for. That was it."

Anya and James had reached a new sense of understanding. . James saw in Anya a piece of himself… the curious historian eager to acquire new knowledge. To be a scholar of history, one could not fully be an adult. One had to maintain a childish sense of curiosity. One had to continue to ask questions, desperate for answers – eager for the hunt, the search, the history trail. When one gave up on the world – or rather, when the world caught up to that person – the search was over. It was an absolute necessity to maintain a small sliver of childish purity to go on.

"I know this war is different. I can feel it. I felt it when I read _Mein Kampf_. I felt it when I turned on the radio on December 7, a year and a half ago. I knew it when I was in graduate school, when I read about new conquests. And I could feel it in my bones, when I looked out my window on September 2 of 1939, the morning after Germany invaded Poland." Anya broke the silence. The child within her had come out.

"What do you do when you have an instinct like that?" James enquired, hoping he would motivate her into further research. He was her mentor.

"Look at the sources. Check the premises. Ask why. Ask why not. Go for the whole story." She answered, remembering what James had taught her.

"Find the story that nobody else is going after. That's what you do. You're a detective. That's what this is. People will read about this long after I'm dead and buried, Anya. _This_ is the time for the history books. Search for it." James finished his coffee, and looked deeply into Anya's eyes. _Search for it until you can taste it, Anya. This is everything. This is the glory of this great academic endeavor._

"I'll take my leave, now. I wish you luck preparing the quiz for tomorrow. I am sure the men will do brilliantly." James rose from his seat, and walked out of the lounge without another word.

_James Grant, the Enigma from Bangor_, thought Anya. It was in that twenty five minute conversation with him that she learned more about him than she had over the past two years. He had planned to meet with her over coffee. She knew that he had planned to tell her those things. He was a very decisive man. James Grant, to Anya, was a philosopher. He picked up where her history professors at Barnard College left off. She viewed his teaching as the last historical education that she would receive from a superior. She knew that she wouldn't _truly_ be an historian until he was done with her.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews. They mean a lot and they definitely provide me with some inspiration to keep cranking out chapters.

**Chapter 7**

Anya watched the men fill the lecture hall as she sat at her desk in the front of the room. She watched the men file in and head towards their seats. The men had tried to come as early as they could. Some were sitting down studying their notes from the previous lecture, in a last ditch attempt to memorize the material required for the upcoming quiz.

"Welcome everybody. I hope you've all prepared for this morning's quiz. The quiz shouldn't take any more than fifteen minutes. At 9:15, if you aren't finished, I will proceed to wrench the quizzes out of your hands if I have to!" The classroom filled with laughter. The laughter abated when they saw Colonel Sink walk into the room.

"And, of course, if you cheat, Colonel Sink will take care of you!" Anya joked, but only she and Colonel Sink were laughing. Dr. Grant entered the room shortly after Sink. "Ah, now we have a full house!" Anya mused, and some of the men nervously giggled. Dr. Grant chuckled in a way befitting of only him.

"There's no need to worry, though." Anya refocused the attention of the men. "Colonel Sink and Dr. Grant are interested in how our classes are working out, so I invited them to sit in and observe. Colonel Sink also volunteered to take the quiz as well." Sink's eyes widened. He hadn't thought Anya was serious when she talked with him the day before. Some of the men smiled as they saw Sink's reaction.

"So, please don't be distracted. I honestly expect nothing but passing marks. You all looked very attentive at the past lecture, and I'm sure the opportunity to win a pass for tomorrow night motivated your studies. Anyhow, the time is 9:05. Please put your notebooks inside of your desks. I will give you exactly fifteen minutes for the quiz. When you get the papers, you're free to begin. This goes without saying, but no talking and please, pretty please, no sharing of answers." Anya had stacks of papers ready to go and she quickly handed the stacks out across the rows of desks.

Anya felt that the questions on the quiz were rather easy, providing that one paid attention during class. The questions on the sheet were as follows:

**Quiz #1**  
1. What year did World War I (WWI) end?

2. What was the name of the Treaty that ended the war?

3. Who was the President of the United States at the end of WWI?

4. Name two US allies during WWI.

5. Name two US enemies during WWI.

6. What is the period in Germany, in between WWI and Hitler, called?

7. Who is the current leader in Germany?

8. Name one battle, occurring in France during WWI, that I mentioned last class.

9. Which college did I attend? If you were listening, you'd know this!

10. Which diplomatic body did Woodrow Wilson try to establish? Clue: The diplomatic body was established, but the US never ended up joining!

A few men were progressing at a very speedy rate. David Webster, who she remembered as the gentleman who had borrowed her copy of _Mein Kampf_, had finished in less than five minutes. Lew had zipped through the questions. Anya wondered whether or not he put any effort into it at all – she had sensed that he was that type of student. Winters looked satisfied with his answered. Anya could tell that he was doing well to motivate his men. She respected that. A few other men she recognized from Easy Company put their pencils down.

Anya looked across the rows and spotted Ron. He was looking at her intently. He had finished his quiz with the precision of a surgeon, making sure to answer every question perfectly. Of course he knew she had gone to Barnard College. Of course. He had internalized everything he learned about her. He wanted to get to know her. He wanted to know about her favorite flowers, her favorite colors, her favorite pieces of artwork, her favorite films, her favorite places. He wanted to know her better than anyone had done so before. He wondered what she would think if he scored less than perfect on the quiz. He was confident that he had a perfect score.

Speirs thought about what he would do with the Friday night pass, if he managed to win it. Would asking her out be too bold? He couldn't appear _too_ needy. He wanted her, but he didn't want her to think less of him. He had to plan out everything accordingly. He worried, too, that he would have competition. Maybe there were other scholarly men in the area. Maybe she had somebody back home. Maybe she was _more_ than friendly with Nixon. Speirs had noticed how the two looked at each other, as if they were both privy to some inside joke. _Since when do I worry about stuff like this? Why does this get to me? Why do I feel like this? What is going on?_ Speirs analyzed his thoughts and waited for the rest of the men to finish their quizzes.

"Time!" Anya called. "Please pass the quizzes to the man sitting at the end of the row, towards the aisle." Colonel Sink personally stood up and handed Anya his exam, and he looked slightly pleased with himself. "And, no need to worry – you won't be competing with my favorite Colonel for that Friday night pass!" There were smiles throughout the room – with the exception of Herbert Sobel. The men saw in Anya an ally, a person of authority who was on their side.

"Well, well, well…. Because I have a _lot_ to cover, I'm going to plow on through the next lecture. I'll go over the exam results next Tuesday when you get your exams back. And, a list of the men who got perfect scores on the quiz will be posted outside this classroom tomorrow morning at 8 AM. I will be waiting in the classroom. If your name is on the list outside, come in and we'll figure out who gets that pass. Alrighty then…" Anya scanned the room and saw the men looking at her with anticipation.

Colonel Sink, Dr. Grant, Dick Winters, Lew, and Herbert Sobel were sitting in one of the front rows. Colonel Sink had a smile on his face. Anya liked that Sink appreciated her presence on the base. Herbert Sobel, on the other hand, wouldn't make eye contact with her. Dr. Grant looked at Anya and caught her attention. He gave her a wink. She shifted her gaze to the mass of men sitting before her, and began her lecture.

"So…. This lecture, we're going to discuss a really important topic. We're going to go over _how_ we got to September 1, 1939. September 1, 1939, is a really important date. It was the European version of Pearl Harbor, if you will. On that date, Europe would not be the same. I am confident, that as a result of what happened on that date, Europe will _never_ be the same. The _world_ – the entire world – will never be the same. That date was a matter of life and death, of peace and war. In about a month's time, we're going to get to September 1. Right now we're going to focus in on this Weimar Period, which we laid the foundations for on Tuesday. The goals of this lecture are as follows: To establish the politics of this era, to determine what the situation of the people was during this time, and to further delve into Germany's position in world affairs. We will also learn about the foreign policy of the US during this time." The men before her got their pencils ready. Sink realized fully, at this point in time, that Dr. Metternich and her counterpart, Dr. Grant, were not wasting resources.

Anya carefully explained the ins and outs of Germany's conditions. She explained the deficits and the sense of morbidity that pervaded the popular culture of the time.

"The German Deutschmark, at this time, was devalued beyond belief. Buying certain items such as bread became impossible. I recall hearing a story about a German woman, who would carry mounds and mounds of Deutschmark bills in a big woven basket. She was in a market in a German city, trying to find food to provide for her family. Anyways, for some reason, she placed the basket on the ground – the one that was full of money – and turned to talk to a friend. After a few seconds, she looked down to where she had placed her basket – and there was no basket. There was her money, lying on the pavement, scattered. She had millions of Deutschmarks in that basket – and the thief saw more value in a _hand basket _than in all of that money. The German currency was in shambles."

"No shit!" Muttered Guarnere to the men sitting next to him. Many of the men were surprised, and others even felt bad.

Anya continued with her lecture, and she eventually concluded with a detailed explanation of American isolationism.

"The United States didn't want to be involved internationally after World War One. They had sent manpower and money to Europe, which turned the tide of the war. After the peace, they would broker an extensive series of loans and repayment programs – and Britain, France, and Germany still owe us money _to this day_. Prior to World War I, the United States was like that cousin you don't really talk to at Thanksgiving – the oddball, the one you think is kind of loony." Anya heard some of the men laugh when she said this. She saw Ron looking into her eyes, and she felt swept off of her feet. Using all of her willpower, she brought her thoughts back to what she was saying. She continued. "Only fifty years before, our nation almost broke up as a result of the Civil War. We were viewed as uncivilized and incapable of taking care of ourselves. After World War I, however, the United States became a global super power, capable of changing the course of a European conflict – and later _dictating_ the terms of that European peace." Anya had about seven minutes left in her lecture. Colonel Sink looked very satisfied.

"The trials and tribulations of World War I were pushed out of the public memory, however. People, in a time of new prosperity, wanted to forget about that painful war – which many felt the United States had no business in being involved in the first place. The US ushered in a period of global isolationism, which would later begin to fall apart by the time the 30s had ended. And… on that note, I'm done for this week." Men began to put their pencils down and close their notebooks.

"Remember to check this room tomorrow morning to see if you're the lucky winner… Alrighty then. I'll see some of you tomorrow, and the rest of you next Tuesday. Have a nice weekend, everybody."

The men began to exit the room. Much to Anya's relief, Sobel had not ordered Easy Company to run up Currahee. Colonel Sink made his way to the front of the room to talk to Anya, while Dr. Grant remained seated. Speirs felt that it wasn't in his place to stay in the classroom while Anya talked to Sink, so he left the room – all the while hoping that he would see her tomorrow morning when he would go to check his grade.

Colonel Sink waited for the men to leave, out of earshot, before he began to talk to Anya.

"Doctor, that was one damn fine lecture. Consider yourself a full time staff member here."

"And I wasn't before?" Anya said cautiously, with an eyebrow raised.

"Eh, some of the higher ups had questioned whether or not these lectures were one hundred percent necessary. They viewed the first few weeks as a sort of trial."

"Really now…" Anya let Sink continue.

"But you don't pay that any mind. I extend an offer of full support. I want you on my staff... you and Dr. Grant. You two have a lot of information that you can provide us with. Hell, your research skills may come in handy later when it comes to collecting intelligence. You never know. I have a lot of faith in you two and the program you've drawn up. It means a lot that you'd come to Toccoa to share this with my men. Again… you have my full support."

"Thank you, Colonel. That does, indeed, mean a lot. I feel like I've invested an interest at this point. If it was determined that I wasn't necessary, I'm sure I'd only leave if General Patton dragged me away with his own hands. Once I start something I find it difficult to quit."

"And that's a quality that will prove very useful in this environment. Hell, if some more of the brass had an attitude like that, I'm sure the war would be over by now."

"I appreciate your fine comments, sir. You are welcome in my class any time." Anya replied jovially.

"Noted. And, of course, I'd wager that I got a perfect score on that quiz!" Colonel Sink joked.

"I don't make wagers, sir," Anya retorted, in a joking fashion.

"That would make you a very wise person – wiser than many of the men on this here base." Sink acknowledged.

"I don't gamble because I don't like to lose. I'm in everything to win. Everything." She stated seriously.

"Again, if the brass had some of your sense, we wouldn't be at Toccoa right now. The war would be over."

"You're quite the charmer, sir!" Anya replied, with mocked bashfulness.

"Anyways, I take my leave. Do keep me posted about the results of the men. I'm eager to see how well they fare in your class."

"Of course, Colonel." Anya replied. Sink nodded, and walked out of the lecture hall.

Dr. Grant had heard their entire exchange. He was quiet, sitting in the front row. Colonel Sink had noticed he was there, but must have figured he was senile. Anya's eyes lit up when she saw Dr. Grant. She had been lost in her conversation with Sink, and hadn't noticed him.

"So, you've been sitting there listening, the whole time?"

"Would you expect any less?" James retorted, with a twinkle in his eyes. Anya walked over to the desk where he was sitting and pulled a chair up next to him. She hated shouting across rooms – she preferred more quiet and reserved conversations.

"You never cease to amaze me with your ruse of feigned deafness. Selective hearing at its best." Anya said lightly. "Did you like the lecture?"

"It was everything I had hoped it would be. You shouldn't worry so much about the approval of others. You already have it. Except, of course, for that rather crabby looking gentleman who sat next to me. Was he the --"

"The one who accused me of treason?" Anya cut Dr. Grant off. "That's the one!"

"Well, everybody _else_ approves of you. But then again, you wouldn't need their approval anyways. You have to be your own compass. There will be a time when you won't have a superior to look up to in hopes of finding signs of approval. There will come a time when _you_ are that superior person to whom others look up to. You shouldn't doubt yourself."

"Eh, I'm trying not to." Anya reasoned. _I'm getting better, right?_

"What do you do here when you aren't working?" Asked Dr. Grant, changing the subject. "I mean, for fun?"

"I read. I have an occasional glass of whisky." When Dr. Grant heard the word 'occasional', he raised a grey eyebrow. "I occasionally have a nice occasional glass of a fine whisky, occasionally. On occasion." Anya continued, in an attempt to make herself sound more interesting and less of a loser. "Yes… On occasion."

"Anya." The way James said her name caused Anya to look up at him. "How many times have you read Anna Karenina since you've left New York?" Dr. Grant asked this question rather seriously.

"Twice." Anya answered honestly, with her head down.

"That's twice more than average." Dr. Grant stated plainly. "Find things to do. I know it's hard, being that you aren't quite the 'soldiering' type, but you can find things. Find something _new_. Something for yourself that nobody else can take away. You're not in your own environment right now. You're in a whole new world. Do something different. Make a change. Go out of your way to find something new. You won't regret it."

"You think?" Anya asked plainly.

"I know." Dr. Grant looked into her eyes with a sense of fatherly adoration.

"You know…"

"Yes, Anya, I know. Live or something other than a book, a carton of Lucky Strikes, and a bottle of Vat 69. Live for more than Anna Karenina and re-reading her failed love affair. Go out and do something. You're twenty one. You're here both to teach and to learn. If you can promise me one thing, promise me this. Promise me that you won't be sixty five years old, looking back to this time of your life, thinking 'If only I did that'. You won't regret it."

"You know, you could make a Bible with all of that advice." Anya said, with a sly smile.

"Yes… and nobody would read it."

"I would!"

"Yes, but you read military reports for fun." Dr. Grant countered.

Anya decided that Dr. Grant had won this round. So, she was to find something she could have for herself. A new project. A nonacademic project. Something that she could pour herself into. After Dr. Grant rose out and walked out of the lecture hall, she continued to sit where she was for a few moments. She struggled to come up with something that she could keep to herself, for herself, that no one else could take away.

She was pulled from her thoughts, however, by a voice that sounded all too familiar. She rose from her seat and walked toward one of the windows in the lecture hall. She was right near the camp's training field, and could see Easy Company standing at attention. She saw Sobel standing in front of the men, dictating orders.

"We are running CURRAHEE! NOW! And each man is ordered to NOT drink from his canteen!" Sobel shouted. It dawned on Anya that he had saved this for after her lecture. He didn't want Sink to hear his voice echo throughout the lecture hall.

Anya felt a wave of sickness come to her stomach. That man. That insufferable man. She knew that he had ordered the men to run that mountain over and over – but Lew, in passing, had confided to her that since Anya began her lectures, the runs would always follow her class. Furthermore, they would run the mountain more than usual. Anya saw the men groan at Sobel's command. She felt the anger swell up within her.

In an attempt to pull herself away from her anger, Anya walked over to her desk and began to correct the quizzes before her. She had a long day of work, planning, and meetings ahead of her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Note:** Thanks for the reviews (show some love – or advice! [you know you want to!]). I hope you enjoy this chapter, as I feel half and half about it, honestly. For some reason, I feel like now that I've gotten past THIS chapter, every other chapter will be easier. I've got some good shit planned. And… Also… This chapter gets slightly "M" rated toward the end of it. I'm going to change the rating from "T" to "M".

**Chapter 8**

The morning was chillier than Anya had anticipated. She had made a quick dash to the mess hall, where she found that she had little time to actually consume a decent breakfast. Grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee, she proceeded to walk briskly out of the room, careful that she didn't spill the scalding coffee on her hands.

One of the men in charge of the mess hall saw this and called out to her.

"Ma'am, you aren't permitted to run out with that! That mug is property of the United States government!"

"I'm running late!" Anya shouted back, across the largely empty room. A few men were seated and stared at her with a sense of confusion.

"You could be penalized!" The man shouted back. Anya, at this point, turned to him.

"Take it up with President Roosevelt – maybe he'll see fit to deduct the worth of this fifteen cent crap mug from my paycheck!" Anya retorted, and stormed out of the mess hall. She walked quickly out of the mess hall toward the lecture hall.

By the time she had arrived at the classroom, she had five minutes before the men arrived. She quickly tacked the list of perfect scores onto the wall, and then retreated into her class room. She had an old World War I helmet – an amusing relic – which she felt it would be fitting to withdraw the names from.

While grading the exams the night before, Anya felt a sense of anticipation. As she sifted through the quizzes, she hoped to see names she recognized. She, above all, had hoped that Speirs would be among the perfect scores. She wondered what he would do with his Friday night pass, if he ended up winning it.

Much to her elation, Ron was indeed among the short list of men who had perfect scores. Anya hoped that she would maintain her composure as she pulled names out of the hat, with him watching her. She hoped desperately that he would win the pass.

Anya could hear the men begin to come up to the wall outside of the room, in small clusters. She could hear sounds of disappointment as men discovered that they were not contenders for the Friday night pass. The men who had perfect scores were listed as Alston, Haig, Merriman, Nixon, Speirs, Springer, Webster, and Winter. Anya knew of Dick Winters, Lew, and, of course, Ron. She was pleased to have written his name out in her neat cursive on the list that she posted.

Anya was rather surprised when she saw Dr. Grant stroll into her classroom. She had been expecting the men to slowly trickle in – Dr. Grant was a surprise.

"Nice mug." James Grant stated plainly, nodding at the mug of coffee that was in her hand.

"Oh, this old thing?" Anya said jokingly, wondering if he knew how she came into possession of the mug. "Keeps my coffee in check, can't complain."

"I see…" He said, raising an eyebrow. "So… the quiz results! I understand you'll be drawing names from a hat." James looked down at Anya's desk and saw a World War One era helmet. "Or, rather, a US army helmet from World War One."

"Used in the Somme. A relic I bought in France." Anya stated proudly. Oh, the things one accumulated along the history trail!

"You and your artifacts, Anya. I suppose you can add a World War Two era mug to your collection now?" James said with a smile.

"I suppose so." Anya answered, in a slightly cheerful manner. James was a man that always made her smile. Something in him brought out the best within her. He was, in essence, the perfect mentor. There was something about him that Anya couldn't quite place – something that made him an extraordinary man.

"So, have you written the names out – the ones that are to be pulled out of the helmet?" James inquired, looking down at a paper and pen that were lying on Anya's desk.

"No, I haven't gotten to that yet. I just posted the list of names outside."

"Let me help you with that. What are the names?" James asked, and Anya looked at him almost in a sense of confusion.

"That bored, eh?"

"I do what I can to help the cause."

"Alright. Here's a second copy of my list." Anya handed James a list with the names of the perfect scorers. She then motioned for James to go to her desk and start writing the names.

James began writing the names, while the gears were turning in his head. He had a very good idea. He wanted Anya to live for more than books and research – for at least once in her life. He wanted her to have _something_. James finished writing out the names of the eight men, and he then tore the paper into eight pieces. He folded each piece of paper before Anya could fully see them, and then put them in the army helmet.

"You're so very efficient, dear sir!" Anya exclaimed.

"As I said, I do what I can for the cause."

"And what cause are we talking about?" Anya asked with an eyebrow raised.

"You'll see."James stated enigmatically.

"I'll _see_?" Anya looked at him skeptically.

"Yes, you'll see." There would be no more to talk about. James had the final word. After James had spoken, men began to enter the class room. "I'll take that as my cue, doctor. I'll see you later for some tea… and… perhaps a cigarette?"

"Of course." Anya answered. James exited the room as quietly as he had entered.

Anya saw men that she recognized, along with three that she did not. She recognized the man who borrowed her copy of _Mein Kampf._ He walked up to her and introduced himself.

"Hi, Doctor Metternich. My name is David Webster."

"It's lovely to meet you. I recall you borrowed my copy of _Mein Kampf_. How are you finding it?" Anya asked. After she asked this, she saw Ron walk into the room, closely followed by Lew and Dick Winters.

"It's a very interesting read, doctor. Very interesting. It puts quite a few things into perspective." David replied. Ron saw the two talking and felt, for an instant, jealous.

"Well, I'm glad it helped. That's what the books are there for. If you'd like any other reading, I definitely have a few recommendations that I can give you after class one of these days." Anya said genuinely. She sensed that David Webster wasn't brown nosing. He seemed truly interested in what she had to offer. She appreciated that.

Anya scanned the room and did a quick head count. There were eight men in the room. Anya was ready to start.

"So, I see you're all present. Eight. Before I draw names, I want to say congratulations for doing well on the quiz. I'm glad you all took notes and studied. Hopefully this will serve to motivate other men to study hard as well. So, without further ado…" Anya reached for the army helmet that was on her desk.

Dick Winters saw the helmet and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Nice relic," commented Lew with a smirk.

"You'll wear one of these soon enough, don't worry!" Anya retorted. Ron found this particularly amusing. He analyzed her, all the while attempting to remain detached. Her hair was in a long, messy braid, which he had decided that he liked. When her hair wasn't coiffed up in a bun or in a style more suitable to the decade's fashions, its length was much more apparent. He saw her face, and he noticed that she was wearing less make up than usual. Her scar was faintly more visible. He liked that she was wearing less make up – he could see that she was growing more comfortable. She was wearing a tweed long sleeved dress that fell to her knees. The dress hugged her figure and accentuated her breasts – something he could tell was unintentional. Her shoes had a heel slightly higher than he had seen on other women. He saw how the good three inches accentuated her calf muscles. He saw her legs – slim and long for a woman of her petite build. For an instant, he wanted to run his hands up her legs, physically paying them the attention which they had been deprived of.

"So, I'm going to pull a name out of this hat…. Err… Helmet. That man has a Friday night pass which he can use tonight." Anya reached into the helmet, and picked a small, folded piece of paper from the bottom. She hoped it would be Ron. If it wasn't Ron, she at least hoped it would be Lew, for then they could go out and share a glass of whisky. She had been positive that if Lew got the pass, he'd take her out to a bar – something which she secretly craved. She was unaware of what Ron would do with such a pass.

She pulled her hand out of the helmet and put the helmet back down on her desk. A few of the men looked excited.

"Ah, now the excitement is _killing_ me." Anya remarked, and she heard light chuckles. She unfolded the paper. "And, the Friday night pass goes to…" She read the paper. It couldn't be. It _was_. "Lieutenant Speirs."

"No shit," muttered Lew under his breath. Unbeknownst to Lew, Anya was thinking the same things he was. _No fucking way. You've got to be fucking kidding me_.

Ron Speirs, for the first time in a long while, felt very pleased with himself. He didn't smile, though. He didn't want others to see. He contained his sense of elation. He had paid attention in class because Anya was teaching. He had studied the notes even though he knew the material – because he wanted to impress Anya. He had hoped that he would get the pass, because he wanted her to acknowledge him, if she hadn't done so before. In a perfect world, he would immediately have thought about asking her out on a date. He felt suddenly rather self conscious. Would that be too bold? What if she wasn't interested? But, she had seemed so! Ron's thoughts ran contrary to one another, and he felt slight confusion about what he should do.

"Well done." Anya commented, and procured a sheet of paper that had been hiding on her desk. It was information pertaining to the weekend pass. "I'll give you this as a receipt, of sorts, and then file a report with Colonel Sink. Everybody, thanks for coming out. There are going to be other rewards throughout the class' duration, so don't worry. I'll see you all in class on Tuesday." Anya could sense there were no hard feelings in the room. She saw Webster smile and nod his head at her, and she returned the gesture. The men began to exit, including Ron. Ron lingered outside of the classroom. He saw that Lew had remained in the room and he didn't want to appear overly interested.

"So… You're one of those students." Anya commented, while Lew looked at her with a smirk.

"And what type of student is that?" Lew asked, innocently.

"You know… Mr. Nonchalant, the guy who strolls into the class casually, not worried at all – and you might not have even studied, mind you – that type of student. You know, the one that doesn't seem incredibly interested in class, but then comes in and aces the test."

"Ah, here you go, having me all figured out." Lew said.

"Lew, I don't have _anything_ figured out around here… and I'll _never_ claim to."

"Wise woman… So… Speirs got a Friday night pass… for tonight… I'm… rather thirsty." Ah, now it all made sense.

"You're incorrigible." Anya stated.

"And you have a bar in your desk drawer."

"And you put up quite an argument. How about drinks after lunch?" Anya asked. She found Lew to be pleasant company.

"How about drinks _for_ lunch?" Lew asked cheekily. Part of Anya thought that he could have been serious.

"The bottle isn't _that _big."

"A man can dream." _Oh, Lew._

With that, Lew walked out of the classroom. He would go to Anya's room, he decided, after one o'clock. He had seen her around the Officers' Residence around that time so he figured that would be a good time. Lew hadn't noticed Speirs standing outside of the room.

After Lew left, Speirs took this as his cue and opened the door. Anya wasn't expecting a visitor, and had been packing up her things rather quickly. She looked at the door and was surprised to find Ron standing in the classroom.

"Ron!" Anya exclaimed.

"Anya…" He answered.

"Well, good job on the pass. Any idea of what sort of trouble you're going to get into tonight?" Anya asked, lightly. _If only you knew what I wanted. Trouble, of course_, thought Ron. He could get into a lot of trouble with Anya and those legs of hers.

"I have a few things in mind." Ron stated lightly. Anya thought about Dr. Grant, and what he had said. Go out and do things. Live for more than your cigarettes and books and research and whisky and dreaming but not doing. Do more than that. She thought about saying something, but decided against it. "A few things." Ron stated again, quietly.

"You should take me out on a date." The words had spilled out of her mouth before she realized what she was saying. She felt as if she had just fired a bullet into her right foot. She wished, right then, that she could pull the words out of the air and put them back into her mouth. _I cannot believe I just did that. This is absurd._ It was absurd, but it had caused Ron's lips to twist into a smile.

"You're a bold one, Anya." Anya started to blush. She was dreadfully embarrassed. Ron walked closer to her. He looked at her green eyes, which stood out against her skin which was highlighted by the red in her cheeks. He could see her cheekbones – which he took a liking to – stand out with red sitting on top of them. "What do you have in mind?" He continued, inching closer to her.

Anya thought quickly and picked the first thing that popped into her head.

"Music."

"Music?" Ron asked, noting her anxiety. He liked that he made her nervous. He also liked that deep down she made _him_ nervous. There was a sense of balance. She wouldn't bore him, like other women had.

Anya felt dreadfully silly with her quick answer, and attempted to elaborate.

"I enjoy classical music," she continued. "And jazz. Opera. Music, I like music. I haven't seen any performances since I've left New York."

"Well, there isn't exactly a Metropolitan Opera House around here. The nearest biggest thing is that God damned mountain." _Currahee_.

"I'm just being silly, I guess." Anya felt naïve, almost, for suggesting something so cosmopolitan in the middle of the country. She felt silly.

"It's not silly. I'll figure something out." Lieutenant Ronald Speirs had his ways.

"Well, it's up to you. It's your pass." Anya went on. "I mean, you can do whatever you want, you know. It's not like _I_ have to be involved. I mean, it was a suggestion." Anya continued nervously. She quickly decided that she would end her little anxious rant right there – she felt like if she kept going on Ron would change his mind.

"Anya," Ron said, as he stepped closer to her, this time bringing him only a matter of inches from her face. Her heart was racing. If she had felt his pulse, she would have known at that moment that his heart was beating just the same. "I like that you asked." Anya, at that point, could have fallen down. She could feel blood rushing to certain parts of her body – accompanied by the feeling of her stomach fluttering.

Before Anya could say anything else, Ron assumed control of the situation.

"Meet me at seven in the parking lot behind the Officers' Residences." Anya nodded in response to Ron's statement. She saw in his commands a sense of immense sexiness that she couldn't explain. She didn't take orders. She hated the idea of men ordering women around – and how it was basically acceptable. Ron's commands weren't done so in a fashion to make her feel little. They were his perfected form of teasing…. And it worked.

Ron was still less than six inches away from Anya. She looked up into his eyes – he was a foot taller than her – and he looked down at her. They both knew that this wasn't the appropriate time for anything. They were both rather sensible people – they thought. Ron, feeling a sense of disappointment that nothing more could happen, smiled slightly. If Anya could have had anything as a gift, she would have chosen Ron's smile. She knew that it rarely came out, and that she was one of the few people privy to such an intimate showing of emotion. Ron pulled away, still looking into her eyes. He was unsure, almost, of what would become of this. He, too, felt a sense of danger – as if he had a sense of duty that could not and should not be shirked away from.

In a perfect world, Ron Speirs would have moved closer to Anya. Anya, being the lovely young lady that she is – yet so very unsure of herself – would have backed away from him playfully, with a sense of innocence and naivety. Ron, in that perfect world, where the two were not bound by the constraints of duty and rigidly scheduled life, would have pushed Anya Violet up against the wall. He would have cornered her. And he would have pulled at her dress forcefully, willing into to come down, whilst Anya tugged at the zippers, hoping it would fall to the floor and allow him to finally see her. And he would have pressed up hard against her, to let her feel against her all that he had in store for her. He would have kissed her passionately, even forcefully – all the while trailing the kisses to her neck. He would have heard her moan as he continued with his barrage of kisses – and the moans would have made him rub up against her harder. He would have let her remove his uniform, piece by piece – and Anya, the way she was, would have slowly unbuttoned each button, as if to torture him with the suspense. In a perfect world, their clothing would be on the floor and Anya Violet would have been pushed up against a wall, with Ron gently, passionately, yet intensely pushing himself into her soft body.

But that was in a perfect world.

Ron wrenched himself out of his fantasies. He desperately tried to avert the flow of blood to his manhood, as he could feel his sentiments begin to swell. He thought of a history class on Victorian England that he had when he was in high school. He remembered his professor telling him about Victorian England. 'Queen Victoria's instruction to her daughters on their wedding night was as follows: _Lie back, and think of England!_ She thought the girls were like lambs being led to a slaughter.' Now, Lieutenant Speirs was a bit more experienced than a sixteen year old Victorian girl, and he was certainly not being led to a slaughter that he had no knowledge about. On that Friday morning, however, he desperately wanted to avoid embarrassing himself. Ronald Speirs thought of England.

Speirs continued to pull himself away from Anya. She smiled back at him this time. _I know, Ron. I know._

"I told you a smile suited you well," she commented quietly, attempting to mask the sense of happiness that began to swell within her.

Ron flashed her a brilliant grin and then turned away from her and began walking toward the door. Anya saw his masculine figure retreat and she felt, for the first time in a long time, a sense of longing. As Ron twisted the door knob and opened the door, he turned around to face her.

"Anya?"

"Yes?"

"Wear something nice." Before Anya could answer him, he was gone.

Anya could not believe it. She went to her desk and sat down. The slip of paper that had said "Ronald Speirs", which Dr. Grant procured from the helmet, was sitting on the desk. She reached into the helmet to get the rest of the papers, which she wanted to dispose of. As she reached into the helmet for the small folded pieces of paper, a ring she was wearing to caught on one of the slips, causing it to unfold. She looked down at the name on the paper, out of curiosity.

The name read, in Dr. Grant's cursive, "Ronald Speirs". _That can't be right_, she thought, looking at the original slip of paper which read the same name. She emptied the helmet's contents onto her desk and unfolded each slip. They all had "Ronald Speirs" written on them, in Dr. Grant's handwriting.

_You can't be fucking serious_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Note:** Thanks for the reviews for Chapter 8 – I didn't know how I felt about that chapter, but I definitely feel better about it thanks to the reviews. _This_ chapter has taken a long time to write as well, unfortunately. I thought that once midterms were done, I'd be able to take a break. Work, however, _never_ ends. Never ever.

Anyways, this chapter is much longer than the others, which seemed to average at around 7 or 8 pages each. This one is 16 pages (single spaced), which I guess explains why it took so long, right?

I hope you all enjoy this chapter – if you don't, hopefully Chapter 10 will make up for it! (Oh… and I'm sure some people will enjoy the ending….)

**Chapter 9  
**

Anya liked lazy Fridays – the kind where one could walk out of work and go home, only to curl up by the fire with a cup of tea (or Vat 69) and relax. Maybe the relaxation would be broken by going out to a film, bar, or party. Or maybe not.

This Friday was not _that_ type of Friday. She had run out of her classroom with her satchel and her half empty cup of coffee. She made a mental note of the time when Lew would be at her room – most likely around one o'clock, all the while reminding herself that she had to be ready and waiting out in the parking lot for Ron at seven o'clock. _There never is enough time_.

As she ran out of the building and across part of the parade field, toward the Officers' Residences, she saw Easy Company standing at attention. She craned her head to catch a glimpse of Sobel – of course, at that very moment, he looked at her. What he did next she would never have expected. He smiled.

And when he smiled, he made sure to make eye contact. _Maybe things are getting better. Maybe Sink talked some sense into him_. Sobel, looking at Anya in the distance, yet shouting at the men before him, loudly exclaimed, "EASY COMPANY, WE ARE RUNNING CURRAHEE IN FULL GEAR!" _Maybe not_.

"That son of a bitch!" Anya muttered loudly. That was the game Sobel was going to play. It angered her beyond belief. Anya angrily continued her march to her room.

xxxxxxxxx

_Wear something nice. _Wear something nice. _Wear something nice_. Wear something nice.

"Wear something nice…." Anya kept muttering to herself, as she assessed the condition of her closet. Back at her apartment in Manhattan, she had come into possession of a vast number of dresses. Her mother had assumed a great inheritance after Anya's grandfather died about five years ago. Anya's father had passed away as well, so Anya's mother took it upon herself to treat Anya to what she considered to be the finest things in New York. Anya never equated possessions to happiness, but regardless, Anya's mother always saw fit to take care of her in a material way – a way that she had not experienced as a child.

Anya had also found herself amused while she scoured her closet. She had at least five party dresses – dresses that she would consider date and formal dance appropriate – and she was living on a military base. _Oh God, I'm turning into my mother_.

She had narrowed her options down to a little black dress – a long sleeved dress which came down to her knees, hugging her shape – and a sapphire blue silk dress, which made her eyes look dark and greener than usual. _Wear something nice_. He had seen her in long sleeved dresses before – such as the one she currently had on. She wanted something different, so she opted for the dark silk dress. She found that dresses which ended at her knee flattered her legs – all the while straying away from looking trampy. The dress' was in the sheath style. She had remembered purchasing the item at a boutique on the Upper West Side after she had received her first paycheck from the Independent Research Institute. That first paycheck went towards her dress and her first month of rent. The rest of it went into savings.

_Hair. Make up. Accessories. Coat. _Anya went over the list of things that she needed to get into order before seven o'clock came around. She had become so absorbed her planning that she had almost forgot about lunch and drinks with Lew.

xxxxxxx

Anya had never been a fan of turkey – she always found it too dry for her liking. Even with the gravy, she still found the texture and aridity displeasing. She ruefully began to sift her fork through her mashed potatoes and peas, looking down at her plate. She heard a chair slide out from under the table.

"Haven't you ever heard that it is wasteful to play with your food?" It was Dr. Grant, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eye. Before she could answer, he seated himself.

"Why, if it isn't the match maker _du jour_!" She exclaimed. Dr. Grant looked very proud of himself.

"If I didn't do it, who was going to?" He asked innocently.

"I don't know what I'm doing, James. This seems like a bad idea." Anya stated, quite frankly.

"Just be yourself… And, as for the date – it's not a bad idea – it's _my_ idea. Doctor knows best." That old man!

"Well, doctor, I'm sure the brass will believe you – after all, they'd consider me guilty of using my womanly wiles." Anya reasoned sarcastically.

"The _brass_ doesn't have to know. Think nothing of it." James stated. He then looked at her plate and noticed that her serving of turkey and gravy was barely touched. "I never fancied turkey, either." Anya smiled when she heard this.

"Yeah, well, that's the hand we've been dealt." She remarked. "If only I gambled…" She rued.

"Maybe that Speirs fellow will take you out for a nice dinner," James said with a wink.

"Stop your meddling! I see where this is going!" Anya protested, almost laughing at the same time.

"You'll thank me when all is said and done!" James retorted. He had gone through his meal rather quickly and he got up and took his leave. "I hope you have a _very_ nice night!" _That old man._

"I'm having soup tonight by myself!" Anya hissed at James. "And _then_ we're going out!"

"Well, I stand corrected, then!" James jokingly hissed back as he walked away.

xxxxxxxxx

Anya stood staring at the contents of her closet once again. _Wear something nice_. She had the shoes and the dress. She still expressed a sort of doubt to herself – now, what if she was going to be overdressed? What if he was just joking? What if he wasn't serious? What would she do? What if he stood her up? What if he just wanted her to embarrass herself? What if he was a womanizer who had gone on a bunch of dates with various other women since he's been at Toccoa? What if he was _that_ sort of man?

Anya was pulled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. "Come in!" She bellowed, still staring at the contents of her closet.

Lewis Nixon strode into her room and studied the woman before him. She appeared to be staring at a closet which was fully stocked with formal dresses, high heeled shoes – some more risqué than others – and a variety of handbags.

"Looks like the good doctor robbed Macy's." Lew said sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow. "I didn't know we had a boutique on the base!"

"Shut up! I'll have none of that from you!" Anya turned and pointed a finger at him.

"I'm just going to use this as an excuse to safely take a seat." Lew sat himself down at Anya's desk, knowing full well that the bar was about to come out. Anya slammed her closet door in frustration.

"I saw you running toward Currahee today." Anya remarked, remembering how Sobel yelled at the men to get to her.

"Don't fucking remind me. I'm sick of that piece of shit." Lew commented, relieved that he was sitting down about to enjoy his favorite beverage.

"Nothing the good ol' Vat can't heal." Anya poured to rocks glasses of the whiskey and slid a glass across the table to Lew. He picked up and tilted the glass toward her.

"Cheers to that." The two met their glasses in a quiet clink that echoed throughout the room.

"Enjoying class?" Anya inquired.

"The men are placing bets on who would win in a fight – you or Sobel." Lew stated plainly. Anya's lips curved into a smile.

"Go on." Anya found this to be amusing.

"They're hoping you'll shoot him." Anya coughed for a moment.

"And that would happen… how?" Anya asked with a morbid sense of amusement.

"Well, it most certainly would happen, you know, if I bought you a lovely antique Luger from World War One to match that relic helmet of yours. But, unbeknownst to you, the Luger would be fully loaded. And it would go off by accident. And it would be a bloody mess. A big bloody mess. And then --"

"You're obsessed!" Anya cut Lew off with a laugh. "He's a real bastard, though. I don't think anybody here would be sad to see him go. That's rather unfortunate. He's most likely a very lonely man…"

"A lonely man that wants to take it out on everybody else!" Lew reasoned.

"Oh, I wasn't trying to justify it. We're all lonely, but we're not sadistic pieces of shit." Anya plainly commented. Lew wasn't put off in the slightest by her language. He found it refreshing.

"So…. Big event tonight?" Lew said, trying to figure out why Anya had been staring at her closet in a frustrated manner.

"You could say that." Anya stated quietly, hoping that Lew would drop the subject.

"I need more than that! What are your plans?"

"I…. uh…. Going out to listen to some music." Anya tried pathetically to string a sentence together.

"You're going on a date!" Lew said loudly. He knew he was correct when Anya's eyes widened. "You're going on a date! But, with whom…."

"It doesn't matter, Lew. It's best to drop it." Anya said with a sense of authority. _But I'm a doctor! And you're a lieutenant! You can't tell me what to do!_ Anya, at this point, knew that she was only fooling herself.

"Fine." Lew answered, sensing that he was pushing her too far. "You know, Anya, one day I'll find out."

"I'm just glad it won't be today," Anya answered back. "It's no big deal though… it probably won't amount to anything."

"Any guy who messed it up with you would be crazy. Just saying." Lew remarked in a matter of fact tone. He wasn't going to tell her this – but if that guy fucked around with her and hurt her – he'd the first one to crack skulls. He felt a sense of duty to protect her.

"Well, aren't you a charmer!" Anya retorted. Lew purposely flashed her a toothy smile."Say, Lew, where are you from?" Anya asked, changing the direction of the conversation.

"New Jersey." Lew paused. "_Nixon_, New Jersey, oddly enough."

"My condolences." Anya said with an air of fake sympathy.

"New Yorkers…" Lew muttered. The two both burst out laughing. He had finished the generous drink that Anya had poured earlier. "Damn it… meeting with Sink. God damn it."

"Well that makes two of us – people who just can't get used to the rigid scheduling around here…" Anya commented.

"I don't think anybody gets used to it. Hell, to get used to it, you'd have to be off your rocker. A bit crazy. I dunno, like Sobel… or that Speirs guy from Dog Company. I don't know." Anya tried not to let her face light up when she heard Lew mention Speirs. "God damn it. I'm off. I bid you farewell, dear friend… and we shall meet again…"

"Before you say it, Lew, I'll have a fresh bottle ready and waiting." Anya answered Lew's question before he could even ask it.

"They didn't make you a doctor for nothing." Lew quipped.

"I wonder what will happen when they find out my Ph.D. is actually in mixology and not history. I've just been telling you all a bunch of shit I made up about some random countries…" Anya joked.

"I mean, even _I _could qualify for a Ph.D. in mixology." Lew responded, smiling. Lew rose from his seat and began walking to the door.

"Have a good weekend, Lew." Anya said, as she watched Lew's figure retreat towards her door.

"Of course. And, as for you, my dear," Lew started, as he began to open her door to leave. "Have a wonderful date." Anya's face went red when she heard Lew's words. "Oh, and Anya?" He continued. The man wasn't finished. "If this gentleman friend of yours does anything _other_ than gentlemanly, I'm going to see to it personally that he won't be able to _ever_ come near you again."

"Thanks, Dad." Anya responded sarcastically. What was this, her first date with a boy, back in high school?

"I'm serious!" Lew countered.

"I appreciate your concern," responded Anya, kindly. Lew smiled and then exited her room. He closed the door behind him.

Anya thought for a moment what Lew meant when he mentioned Ron in regards to rigid scheduling. Did Ron have a reputation around the base, among the men, that she didn't know about? For an instant, she became nervous about their impending date. Maybe it wasn't too late to back out.

No, if she backed out, she wouldn't hear the end of it. She knew Dr. Grant would find out, some way or another, and he'd bring it up. He wouldn't let her live it down. It would be one cold day in hell when he would stop teasing her about it.

Then she remembered what Ron said to her one day after a lecture. _Some people would consider me cold… Unemotional… _But she saw that there was more to him than that. There had to be. She felt it when she fantasized about him. She felt it when he talked to her the day before – when he left her aching, throbbing, and red in the face. She felt the butterflies in her stomach, the way in which her heart raced when she was near him – and she saw the way he cornered her, how he pushed up close to her, how he tried to get as near as he could without being too bold. Anya felt like she knew a part of Ron that others did not. She hoped she wouldn't be disappointed.

xxxxxxx

The hour after Nixon left, Anya sat in her swivel chair admiring Currahee in the distance. She saw men on the parade field in formation, doing marches, and demonstrating their levels of training. She watched the winter sunlight dance on the barren branches of trees. The sky was light blue, almost white. The scene that unfolded before Anya made her feel cold. She was wrapped in a cashmere blanket, gazing pensively out the window.

Pulling herself away from the brilliant expanse before her, Anya thought about how she would prepare for the night that was to unfold. She knew immediately that she would have to wear a coat – the coat would not only keep her warm, but it would conceal her outfit. She didn't want to arouse questions as she walked to the parking lot. With Dr. Grant and Lew both being interested, she didn't want to have to worry about anybody else. She had decided that she would wear her hair down – completely down. She had no desire to spend an hour in front of the mirror coiffing it into a style that simply would not hold. Her hair, hitting her waist, would provide a contrast to her highly polished outfit – but she didn't care.

Now that she had decided what she was going to wear, she immediately decided on how she would do her makeup. She wanted to be glamorous, yet subtle – she didn't want to look too out of place. Furthermore, she had no idea of where she was going.

There was only one thing left to do at this point – play the waiting game. Anya _hated_ waiting. Rather than wait around like a giddy school girl waiting for her prom date, Anya decided to nap. She walked over to her bed and set her alarm to 5:30 PM. If she set it any earlier, she'd leave herself too much time for second guessing her outfit, hair, and makeup while standing in front of the mirror. Wrapping herself in her beloved cashmere blanket, she put her head on her pillow and let the sound of the wind outside lull her to sleep.

xxxxxxxx

The alarm bell rang loudly and Anya groaned. She hated that bell. She hated it with a passion. Anya rose from her bed, all the while keeping herself wrapped in her cashmere blanket. Anya walked over to her desk and pulled a box of Lucky Strikes off of the table. She slowly pulled a long white cigarette out of the box and put it in between her lips. She reached for her Zippo and struck a light. The warm smoke filled her throat giving her a sense of warmth. Glancing at the alarm clock that had earlier betrayed her serenity, she noted that it was 5:35. _Less than an hour and a half_.

Anya took advantage of her cigarette and reveled in it. She walked towards her large window, and stood wrapped in her blanket, smoking pensively. She looked at the way in which the world unfolded before her, like a present. The sun was setting and there were golden and cherry red hues dancing on top of Currahee. That mountain constantly left her in awe. _It must be like a woman. Beautiful, gorgeous, but at times torturous, painful, with the ability to make you feel smaller than you ever thought you'd be._ _I can't believe I've actually grown fond of it._

Currahee, in the distance, acted like an anchor. It was difficult to live in a rigidly scheduled world that had an uncertain future. Currahee tied everyone down, uniting them. Anya, along with the men, would not realize this until much later.

Anya had an ashtray on the window sill, and she softly put her cigarette out. _Now, time to make a start_, she thought to herself. _If I don't do it now, it won't get done_.

Anya went over to her closet and began to piece her outfit together. She laid the outfit on her bed and began to go to her vanity. She had found an old desk in one of the empty rooms in the Officers' Residences, which she had decided to take in the middle of the night. She smiled, thinking about how she was slowly accumulating US government property – mugs, desks, what was next? The desk had been small and easy for her to move. She had decided to put her makeup, perfume, and hair styling tools on the desk. She sat at the chair she had matched to the vanity – when she had taken it in the middle of the night, many weeks ago – and began to apply her makeup.

About an hour later, Anya was sitting in her swivel chair. Her hair was long and wavy, while shorter layers framed her face. She had cleverly covered her faint scar and accentuated her cheekbones with makeup. Her lips were a medium pink, very natural looking. Her eyeliner and mascara served to accentuate her bright green eyes. Anya's nerves got the best of her, so she poured herself a very small helping of Vat 69. _This is ridiculous._ Fumbling around with her cigarette box, she pulled out another Lucky Strike and tactfully lit it. Her date hadn't even started and her nerves were already getting the best of her. She took her time with her cigarette, smoking it ever so slowly, careful to savor every bit of warmth that she could derive from the long, slender stick. She alternated with small sips of the Vat 69, which she could feel trickle down her throat – creating warmth in the way that a fireplace would. Her room was dimly lit, and she could see cigarette smoke sensuously escape from her lips every now and then. She sat in her chair, continuously gazing out over Currahee. The sun had completely set at this point, and the moon illuminated the mountain's barren trees. The mountain looked lonely as ever.

Glancing at the clock, Anya saw that it was 6:45. She finished her cigarette, eventually putting it out in her ashtray. She looked down at her rocks glass, which still had some Vat in it. She thought about finishing it quickly, but decided against it. She didn't want to taste like liquor.

Taste. She didn't want to taste like liquor… in case _he_ tasted her. Maybe he would slip his tongue past her lips and explore her mouth, his tongue playing sensuously with hers. Maybe he would do that – and maybe he might not want to taste the evidence of her stress – Lucky Strikes and Vat 69. A girl could hope. And dream. And fantasize. And, of course, _will_ something to happen. _But that doesn't mean it will._

Having mulled over the thought of potentially tasting like a saloon, Anya went over to her bathroom and poured herself a shot of mouthwash. She gargled, careful not to disturb her lipstick, careful not to get her dress dirty.

It was 6:55. Anya gave herself a once-over in her long mirror. The blue silk dress was sheath styled – she had paired it with heels, slightly more risqué than other women tended to wear. Anya liked her heels _high_ – and Anya most certainly loved shoes. Anya grabbed a long black coat and retreated into it, hoping that nobody would notice her outfit. Anya grabbed a purse and decided that it was now or never. She left her room, locked the door, and proceeded downstairs.

Her stomach twisted with anxiety as she descended the flight of stairs. As she found herself on the main floor, she began to walk toward the back exit, in the direction of the parking lot. For the first time in a very long time, Anya felt like she was sneaking. She kept staring at the ground and decided it was best not to think about it. She hadn't seen the male figure that she had bumped into.

She felt her body collide with another person. She looked up and she recognized Richard Winters.

"Hello…" Anya stated nervously. Anya recognized the man as Dick Winters from Easy Company.

"Dr. Metternich. You should be more careful, you know." Dick stated kindly. "Best to look ahead, rather than down."

"Anya," she kindly corrected. "You can call me Anya."

"And, of course, you can call me Dick. I think you're doing a great job with the lectures. Colonel Sink speaks very highly of you. I've seen why." Dick noted that Anya was in a rush, but he felt like he needed to properly establish a sense of cordiality between them.

"Thanks, Dick, that means a lot." Anya smiled. Dick stepped out of her way and let her walk past him.

"Be safe tonight," He said randomly, noticing that she looked as if she was dressed up for a date. "Interesting shoes, by the way." _No fucking way. I didn't even think that my shoes were showing. Of course it looks like I'm going somewhere._ Unbeknownst to Dick, Anya's face reddened. Dick smiled and walked away.

Anya, so close to the exit to the parking lot, took a moment to collect herself. Though it was dark outside, she wanted the redness to fade from her cheeks. She then walked toward the door that stood between her and the parking lot. Opening it, she walked over the paved lot.

He stood leaning against a Jeep, dressed in his formal uniform. His military issued Paratrooper cap was tilted to the side. He saw her walk onto the parking lot from the building, and his heart stopped. He first noticed her fully, and then began to visually assess her. He took note of her shoes, which he noticed were rather high heeled. He saw the way her legs looked in those shoes, and he silently thanked the designer of the shoes for existing. He saw her figure-hugging coat, which went down to her knees. He couldn't manage to see what she was wearing underneath the coat, but he was desperate for the slightest glance. Her hair was long and free – to him, she appeared in the parking lot as an ethereal goddess that had no business on a military base. Like an angel. There was no other way to describe it.

She walked a few feet to the Jeep, nervous as hell – yet trying to portray an air of outward confidence. She continued walking until she stood two feet away from him. She looked up at him, taking in his height.

"So, you've decided not to stand me up." Anya said playfully. She imagined what his muscles looked like – the ones that she knew where masked by his formal uniform.

"You weren't worried about it." He stated simply, remembering the sexual tension between them after Anya had asked him out. "You knew I'd be here."

"You are correct." Anya noticed Ron looked pleased with himself. He chuckled slightly, still leaning nonchalantly against the Jeep. "And, I see that you like being correct." She noted. As she said this, Ron stood straight up.

"Well, come on then. My plans won't wait." He said seductively, inviting Anya into the Jeep. He had been leaning, before, against the passenger side of the Jeep. He opened the door for Anya and motioned for her to come in. "I'm driving."

"I don't doubt you, Lieutenant," she said playfully. Anya carefully and gracefully climbed into the Jeep. Ron observed her legs and the way in which her small muscles flexed. She must have known, he thought, when she decided to wear that dress. There was no other explanation. She _must_ have known.

Ron walked over to the driver's side and got into the Jeep. He turned on the Jeep and revved the engine. Anya shuddered – and she hoped that he wouldn't notice. She felt parts of herself throb – and she felt a heightened sense of awareness of the vibrating engine that was in front of her. She felt small and delicate. Anya looked forward, taking in her surroundings. Ron took this opportunity to analyze the silhouette of her face. He took in her high cheekbones and the pinkness of her lips. As she exhaled, he saw the air come out of her mouth. He saw that she was cold.

Anya looked around the Jeep and a case caught her eyes. The case was underneath the dashboard, right before her feet. Ron, still in the parking lot, noted her curiosity.

"There's a gun inside." He stated simply, without emotion. He began to switch the shifts in the Jeep as he left the parking lot. He drove expertly through the base, showing his pass at one of the checkpoints. A soldier at the checkpoint looked at Anya and Anya flashed him a "don't you fucking ask" sort of look. The soldier took note.

Ron was a fast driver, yet he was careful. Anya loved the sensation of driving. Her research would bring her out of New York City. Whenever Anya left the City, she felt a desire to retreat away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Driving gave Anya a sense of solitude and serenity.

"I've never fired a gun," Anya commented, as if to strike up conversation, going back to the thought of the gun case.

"Maybe I'll show you sometime," Ron stated calmly. "You might enjoy it." Of course she would enjoy it. Of course she would enjoy him standing behind her, showing her how to shoot. And of course she might get distracted when he had his hands around her, helping her aim. The thought made her wet.

"I'll take you up on that… sometime…" Anya said with a smile. He loved her smile. In her smile was a sense of knowledge mixed in with innocence. He admired it. "So, where are we going?"

"You'll see." Ron stated, simply. "You'll see." Ron carefully maneuvered around all of the twists and turns of the unlit winding country roads.

Anya remained silent. They were in the Jeep for about twenty minutes. She spent the ride admiring how vast the countryside was. Coming from Manhattan, forests and wide open spaces always caught Anya's imagination. When Anya wasn't investigating the dark countryside, lit only by the lights of the Jeep, she studied Ron's figure.

Ron, with his peripheral vision, could see Anya looking at him. Inwardly, he was grinning. Outwardly, he remained stoic, driving to their destination with a purpose.

In the distance, Anya could see a white church. Anya was raised largely without religion. She had remembered her father telling her about God. He explained to Anya that her mother had been Jewish, but she left the faith when they married. Anya had been taught that morals could be developed outside of religious activity. As a result, Anya sought to discover her own set of values through her studies. As the Jeep pulled to a stop, Anya snapped out of her thoughts.

The church looked small and unimposing. The exterior was plain and it looked as if it could use a new coat of white paint. They were not in a particularly wealthy area. Anya saw, however, that the church was lit up. She saw other cars in the parking lot, as well as other people walking toward the church. The people that were walking toward the church were dressed very finely, in a manner similar to the way in which Anya was dressed. Ron stood out in his formal military uniform. There were no other men in the service in the church. Anya, when she made this observation, also noted that while there were women of all ages present, she only saw young boys, barely teenagers, and men who looked older than forty. _All of their other men are at war. All of them, _Anya thought. She shuddered at the thought.

Ron caught sight of her. "Are you okay?" He asked, genuinely concerned.

"I'm fine…" Anya turned to him as they began walking toward the church. "So, are you going to tell me what we're doing?" Anya asked playfully.

"Music." Ron stated.

"Music…" Anya stated back, looking at him inquisitively.

"Exactly. Music. There's an orchestra here tonight. Wagner is on the menu." Ron, though he was confident in himself – he never had reason to think otherwise – wanted to prove to Anya that he was educated, intelligent, and cosmopolitan. He hoped she didn't think that he'd be taking her to an old, already-seen movie – which were common in this poorer area.

"Wagner! How exciting!" Anya remarked, looking at him with a smile. He took note of how her eyes lit up when she was happy. "You've certainly impressed…" Anya added, flirtatiously.

They walked into the church. Anya saw the high ceiling, made from long-old wood. It reminded her, somehow, of Holland. She couldn't figure out why. She looked at the pews, which were finely polished, and decided that she quite liked the church. The first few rows of pews had begun to fill up rather quickly. The church clearly looked smaller on the outside than it was on the inside.

Anya saw quite a few women sitting alone. Others were sitting with children, who were respectfully quiet. There were quite a few elderly couples there, as well as men who looked worn down from a lifetime of hard labor.

"What sort of church are we in?" Anya asked, looking at Ron.

"A Baptist church." Ron answered.

Anya noted the lack of stained glass and icons. She saw a large, imposing wooden cross hanging on the wall behind the altar. _This is a place of God-fearing men and women_, Anya noted. And fear God, they did.

Anya sat down in a pew and Ron seated himself next to her. They had a good ten minutes before the performance would start.

"Where are you from, Ron?" Anya inquired. She noticed him smile slightly at the mention of home.

"Maine. I was born in Scotland, however."

"A long way from Georgia, indeed. I'm from New York City. I was born in Eindhoven, actually… In the Netherlands." Anya picked up a hymn book from the back of the pew in front of her and began looking through the hymns.

"When did your family come to the States?" Ron inquired.

"When I was very young. I have no memory of the Netherlands. You?" Anya asked.

"I was four when I arrived in the States. I don't remember much of Europe, either."

"How did you find out about the Wagner performance?" Anya asked, trying to keep the conversation going. She wanted to avoid an awkward silence.

"I have my sources."

"Ah, sworn to secrecy, eh?"

"I'd say so."

"You look like the type that would like Wagner." Anya observed.

"What, you mean German?" Ron retorted, almost playfully.

"No, Ron, not German…" Anya thought against saying her next sentence, but said it anyways. "I meant to say that you look like a Wagnerian hero." After Anya finished her sentence, the lights in the church dimmed.

A surprisingly large orchestra walked down the aisle with their instruments. Music stands had already been set up in the front of the church. Anya took this time to look behind her. The church and all of its pews were full of people. There were people standing in the back of the church, unable to find seating. Anya found this rather surprising. People still walked down the aisles, following the orchestra, hoping to find seats in aisles. An elderly couple walked down the aisle and stopped at the pew where Anya and Ron were sitting. Anya saw that the two wanted to sit. She moved closer to Ron – until their bodies were touching – to allow ample room for the elderly couple. Anya left a good five inches between her and the elderly gentleman, which Ron hadn't noticed.

Anya crossed her legs and Ron took notice of her pale white skin – her skin that was so dangerously close to him – her skin that he wanted to touch. He couldn't touch her leg, though. He felt obligated by his sense of duty and his sense of respect for her. Anya looked at him and caught his eyes. She could sense what he was thinking. Their eyes locked in the dimly lit church.

The only thing that drew them apart was the reverberating sound of cellos and violins. An organ's low notes followed. Anya turned her head to face the front of the church and Ron did the same. As Wagner's Tannhauser Overture began to unwind like a sleepy river, Anya saw with her peripheral vision that Ron was calmly looking to the front of the church. As the music began to climax, she found his left hand and began to caress it with her fingers. He was taken aback by the touch and his hand flinched slightly in response. He quickly calmed himself, and she continued to stroke his hand with her own. Ron carefully slipped his fingers in between hers as the music further climaxed.

Anya could feel the music echoing throughout her body, shaking her to the depths of her soul. Ron held her hand throughout the rest of the performance. The music seemed to fly by her, as if she was lost in a trance. The orgy of sounds perforated her ears and reminded her of all of her greatest, most victorious moments. She thought of the life she had and the life that she wanted to live. She thought of the vast expanse of New York City. If any composer could capture the drama of New York, her island, it was Wagner. The intense dramatic music reminded her of the Hudson River's nightly lamp lit sprawl. She thought of the autumn trees in Riverside Park, which always turned the most brilliant shades of orange and red in October. She was reminded of all of the beauty in the world.

As the orchestra's music faded out, Anya rested her head on Ron's shoulder. He accepted her presence heartily. He wanted to feel her so badly, beneath him, on top of him, and beside him. He wanted her. All of her.

As the music ended, the church became less dim. There was thunderous applause, which neither Ron nor Anya participated in. They were both absorbed in each other's presence – and they didn't want to untwine their hands. After the applause died down, the crowd rose and began to exit. Anya reluctantly removed her hand from Ron's grasp and rose. She straightened out her dress and picked up her coat. Ron gazed at her from his seat and smiled. He rose to join her.

The crowd in the church looked at Ron with a sense of curiosity. They could tell by his uniform that he was a Paratrooper. They hadn't seen many uniformed men at the church, however. Ron was certainly an object of fascination. Some of the women looked at him lustfully, which Anya took note of along with Ron.

"I hope we don't have to fight our way back to the Jeep!" Anya remarked quietly. Ron chuckled.

"I wouldn't worry," Ron replied. Some of the women who had been eying Ron began to whisper and point. Others giggled. Ron, noticing this, turned to Anya, and grabbed her hand. He held her hand and he led the them out of the church. Some of the women seemed genuinely offended – others felt that they were prettier and smarter than the dumb woman Ron had been with. Anya and Ron proceeded to walk quickly out of the church.

When they got out of the church, Anya burst into a fit of laughter. Ron, looking at her, began to share in her merriment.

"Mister Handsome, getting us into all sorts of trouble!" Anya jokingly accused.

"Well I'm just lucky all of the men were at war. Otherwise…" Ron looked into Anya's eyes. "I might have some competition." Anya, once again, felt the throbbing feeling return to her body. Ron took a chance to look at her legs, which tempted him from beneath her coat. "You run very well high heels." Ron commented. _Those heels._ What he wanted to see her do in _those_ heels. He found it difficult to contain himself.

Anya saw him look at her lustfully. She wanted the same thing.

"I loved that." Anya commented, looking into Ron's eyes. "It was amazing. You planned this very well."

"I'm happy you enjoyed it." Ron remarked, continuing to gaze into her eyes. _Happy. He was happy. Happy to be with me_. Anya reveled in her thoughts. "Unfortunately, this pass won't last all night. We have to go back to the base."

"Aye. Therein lies the rub…" Anya muttered. She instantly felt a sense of embarrassment after she heard the words come out of her mouth. Before Anya could say something else in hopes of seeming less odd, Ron answered her.

"Hamlet." Anya looked at him with a sensed of surprise.

"Ron, you need to be careful. You're getting more and more attractive as the moments pass on. A little more of that and I may not want to go back to base," Anya said with a laugh. If only he knew, however. If only he knew how she wished they could go back to her room – how she wished he would devour her with urgency. If only he knew how she wanted him more than she wanted air.

"Anya, you need to be careful, talking like that…" Ron commented, very seriously. Anya looked at him and saw a sense of urgency in his eyes. So, he did want her! He wanted her now – and he didn't want to wait. But he wanted something he couldn't have at that point in time – and he hated the temptation. Anya's flirtations only made him want her more.

"I see". Anya and Ron continued to walk back to the Jeep. Ron opened the door for Anya and he watched her climb into the Jeep seductively – hell, anything with those heels of hers was seductive. Ron got into the Jeep on the driver's side and started the car.

Ron briefly gazed in Anya's direction before he began to drive. Oh, how he wanted her. He couldn't have her now, like this. There wasn't enough time and it wasn't the right place. She knew this as well.

The drive back to the base was rather silent. Anya continued to turn her eyes toward Ron every now and then. For a brief instant, they both turned to each other at the same time. Anya pulled away quickly and began looking toward the road. Ron continued driving, this time reaching out to touch her face with his right hand. He heard her whimper as he caressed her cheek lightly with his fingers. He wanted more. He wanted the world and everything in it.

Anya briefly wished that she had met Ron under different circumstances. Though she barely knew him, she felt as though she had accessed a part of him that he hid from the rest of the world. She felt, in that moment, that she could see into his soul. He wasn't a stranger. She knew him. And if they had been in New York – or anywhere else – and they chanced to meet – she knew things would have been different. For the first time in her life, Anya felt held back by the world around her. She, for the very first time, was not the captain of her ship.

Oh, how he had wanted to pull over. To pull over on the side of the road and take her right then and there. No, but she was too important for such a hasty rest stop. He wanted everything to be right. He needed it to be. He couldn't afford to screw this up. Ron, for the first time, felt a sense of duty that he had never felt before. He felt moved by one person – by one sole person – other than himself. This was not to say he was a selfish man – rather, he was a pragmatic man. Ron Speirs felt different.

When they had arrived at the entry to the base, they both showed their identification. Ron drove on down the long road to the Officers' Residences. As they approached the parking lot, Anya felt a sense of apprehension. She didn't want the night to end then, there. She didn't want to say goodbye.

Ron parked the car near the back entry to the Residences. He stepped out and Anya followed him, reluctantly. He walked to the back door.

"I… hope you enjoyed yourself." Ron stated, looking down at Anya. She was standing inches away from him, looking up at him intently. For the first time that evening, Ron took her wholly in. Her face was illuminated by the street lamp that guarded the parking lot. He took in her lips, her cheek bones, the faint scar on her cheek… Without thinking, he lightly traced the scar with his thumb.

Anya winced. _A flaw. He's found a flaw. _She began to pull away with a sense of fear. She averted her eyes – she didn't want to face him – not now, not after that.

"No." Ron softly commanded. "Stop. You're not going anywhere." Anya stayed put, feeling confused.

"It's just…" Anya began to say. Ron moved closer to her, compensating for the distance Anya had created.

"You look beautiful tonight." Ron cut her off, all the while bringing his thumb back to her cheek. Anya brought her eyes back to his with a sense of caution. His lightly and sensuously traced her scar with his thumb and then lightly moved his thumb to her lips. Sensing that it would be okay to proceed, he leaned into Anya.

Anya instinctively closed her eyes. Ron leaned in and completed the very act that he had longed for when he first saw her. He captured her lips with his and enveloped her in a kiss, while pulling her into an embrace. Ron, to Anya, warmed her far more than any glass of Vat 69 ever had. Ron's tongue darted on her lips, silently begging to be allowed in. Anya lightly parted her lips and granted his tongue entry.

Ron started softly at first, but as he pulled Anya closer the intensity of the kiss increased. He began to rub her lower back while he had is other hand behind her head, caressing her hair. Ron could barely contain himself. He wanted more. He could feel himself becoming erect. Anya, who had been pressed up against him, felt it too. Suddenly aware of his erection against her, he pulled away.

But, Anya – Anya wanted to touch him and stroke him and take him into her mouth. She didn't want him to pull away.

"I…. I'm sorry." Ron muttered, aware that he almost created a slightly indecent situation.

"What are you sorry for?" Anya asked quietly. "Please…" She begged him. He looked at her with lustful eyes. He wanted to devour her. He had to be back in his bunk in less than ten minutes. There was no time. Furthermore, he felt bound by his sense of respect for her – he didn't want to rush with her. He wanted to make things last.

"Anya…"

"Ron… please…. I need you…" Anya moaned, pressing her hand against his hardness. The texture of his uniform clashed with what she felt underneath the fabric.

_Oh my fucking God, Anya. You can't do this. Please. If you keep doing this, I won't be able to restrain myself._ Anya looked into his eyes with a sense of passion and hunger that he had never seen in her before. She continued to rub up against his erection with her hand.

"Ron…" She whispered. "Please…." Anya began to kiss him. Removing her hand from his trousers, she began to rub her body up against him as they kissed. She could hear him moan.

Ron pulled away and looked at her like a man on fire. "Anya, I need --"

"You need _me_." Anya cut him off. Now, Ron couldn't quite disagree with her. He had needed her rather badly. He needed to be inside her. He needed to feel her inside and out.

"Anya." Ron said strongly, forcing himself out of the moment. "I… need…" Anya's hand returned to his trousers. "To… Oh my God… Get back…. to my… Bunk…" Anya kept rubbing up against him. Sighing, she removed her hand and smiled at him seductively.

"Aww, and here I am, dripping wet, all for you." Anya said flirtatiously as she pouted. Ron could feel his erection throb .

"Anya. You know what I want." Ron reasoned. "And you know that I have to leave. I only have ten minutes left on my pass."

"Time…" Anya sighed. "There's never enough time…" Ruefully, Anya knew that Ron had to leave. She didn't feel slighted or angry – she felt annoyed at the circumstances. Some women, when in this situation, would have felt like the man in question didn't want them. Anya, however, _felt_ how much he wanted her. She knew what he would have done if they had the time and they weren't bound by invisible constraints. She knew.

"But next time…" Ron alluded to a future date.

"Are you asking me out, sir?" Anya asked in a sweet little voice, accentuating her youth. She felt a sense of empowerment, knowing how she had a sexual power over Ron – a sense of empowerment because she was wanted. And she knew, deep down, that there was more to this than biology. She knew...

"Something like that." Ron said, with a slight smile. "Something like that."

"So… I'll see you in class then, _Lieutenant_?" Anya asked again, in her sweet little voice. Anya once again brought her hand up against him, feeling that his hardness was still there. "And… Ron… you mean more to me than _this_." Anya said, carefully placing pressure on his hardness by the end of her sentence. Ron looked at her knowingly.

"I'm well aware, Anya." Ron sighed as he looked down at his watch. "I have to leave…"

"I know… duty…" Anya sighed. She looked at the ground to mask the sense of loneliness she suddenly felt. Placing a thumb underneath her chin, he brought her face to his.

"I had a great time with you. I'm glad you enjoyed the Wagner."

"You re-invented the whole music experience for me, sir." Anya stated this in a teasing voice, but Ron knew, deep down, that her sentence held a piece of truth.

Ron brought her face closer to his and he pulled Anya into a deep kiss. The kiss, however, ended too soon. He pulled away, and then pressed his lips onto her forehead.

"Get back to your room in one piece, okay?" Ron said, jokingly.

"Worried about me already?" Anya said in a playful tone. _Baby, you have no idea_, Ron thought.

"Just get yourself to bed, woman." Ron said. Anya smiled. "I'll see you soon, okay?" _Please, Ron, I need you. _Anya studied his figure as he retreated to the Jeep. He started the car and looked at her one last time before he drove off toward the barracks.

Anya watched the Jeep fade into the night and then turned around to enter the Officers' Residences. She could barely contain her joy as she walked through the well-lit halls and ascended the stairs to the next floor, and then to her room, locking the door behind her. She quickly threw off her coat and peeled her dress off, throwing it onto her desk. Dressed in only her underwear, she found her cashmere blanket and slid under the covers, finding rest in her bed.

Slipping a delicate finger beneath her underwear, she felt her most sensitive region. It was throbbing. She reached slightly further and slid a finger inside of herself. She was soaked. _Oh God…. Ron…_ Anya thought of him that night as she lay in her bed, quickly playing with her wet clit. It wasn't very long before she was able to achieve an orgasm – causing her to shake and moan, soaking her underwear completely. _Ron…._

She had decided that she needed to see him again.

And that was that.


	10. Chapter 10

Note: Thanks for the reviewwwwwwwws. You know you want to. ;)

This chapter took a _long_ time. I've had so much work and school work over the past few weeks. Anyways, hopefully chapter 11 will be more quick in the making.

**Chapter 10**

He had remembered her scent vividly – he felt as if it lingered around him, like an aura which he hoped would never fade from his memory. He thought of her hands, her legs, and the way in which she walked so confidently in her high heels. He was pulled from his fantasy by the harsh, biting words of his drill instructor. Saturday morning was not going easy on Ronald Speirs.

Saturday morning fared similarly for Easy Company. The men stood at attention, awaiting Sobel's orders. They would be doing practice jumps today. For most of the men, this was the reason why they had joined – besides the extra pay. There was the thrill. The prestige. The way a man could blouse his trousers. The wings that would shine proudly on his uniform. _This_ was what they were waiting for.

They had practiced jumping off of wooden airplanes, six feet from the ground. Sobel had berated them for their shoddy landings – some men were 'paralyzed'. Others had 'broken both their legs'. Guarnere felt a wave of anxiety pass over him, as he marched along with his brothers in arms to the airplanes that had been waiting for them. Bull Randleman walked confidently with his fellow soldiers to the plane – oh, how he longed for a cigar! Lew walked next to Dick, in the front of the procession.

"Hell, I'd just be getting home at this time…" Lew muttered. Dick smiled. Lew had been looking forward to this moment since he enlisted.

"Yeah, well, no better time to wake up than now." Dick smartly replied. He looked at the slew of planes that were waiting for the men. Dick felt no sense of anxiety. He had made his peace with the prospect of pummeling through the sky – he placed his faith in God and his parachute – and hoped that God would help the parachute to work just a _little_ better.

The men had entered the places to which they were assigned. A few of the men that had been on passenger airplanes realized immediately, upon feeling the strength of the propellers and the jet engines, that their impending flight would be different. These planes were designed for one purpose – ejecting men and leaving them to contend with aviation's most bitter mistress – gravity. For many of the men, this was the moment in which it all became glaringly real.

They were going to do something that most people considered crazy and suicidal. They were going to jump out of airplanes.

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Anya rose from her bed sleepily. Aware of her nudity, she walked to her closet and retrieved a robe. After brushing her teeth and preparing a glass of water, Anya walked over to her swivel chair and sat, facing her window. She watched the world unfold before her in all of its morning glory.

Noticing airplanes, she rose from her chair and, with her nose almost pressed to the glass, attempted to make out what was happening. There were about twenty airplanes flying in a formation. Anya immediately recognized that this was a type of training. She wondered what the purpose of the exercise was. Reality answered Anya, as she saw black dots dropping from the planes.

Within seconds, those black dots were replaced with white canvas. "Parachutes…" Anya muttered, intrigued. She knew, obviously, that the purpose of this base was to train Paratroopers – to jump out of planes and then engage in combat with the enemy. She had never really given this much thought until now. She was in awe, staring at the beautiful scene that was unfolding. She had never seen anything like this, ever. The thought of such a large group of men jumping from the cold comfort of an airplane to the insecurity of naked air astonished her. She immediately wondered if Ron was on one of those planes.

Xxxxxxxxx

Ron would be the first man from his plane to jump. There was a silent, well guarded sense of apprehension. Ron saw this and simply sat in the front of the plane. The thought of jumping – pummeling through the air, falling into oblivion – excited him. Ron, smirking to himself, pulled a box of cigarettes out of his uniform. Retracting a lonely Lucky Strike from the box, he brought it to his lips. Pulling a well-used Zippo from his pocket, he let a flame hit is cigarette as he inhaled.

What amazed the men around him was _why _they perceived him to be smoking. He wasn't smoking because he was nervous, they noted. He was smoking because he felt perfectly fine in his current situation.

He heard a man quietly remark to the guy sitting next to him, "I didn't know smoking was allowed… I woulda brought my own…" Ron shot the man a stone cold look. The man understood as Speirs' way of saying, _I don't give a shit if I can smoke on this plane or not. As far as I am concerned, this is my plane. And don't you even dare ask for one. _Ron continued to stare at the man, enjoying the power that he held over those around him. They were afraid of him. He reveled in this.

The officer in the plane was focused on the jump. He sat by the door, gazing over the Georgian land that seemed so small below him. He didn't care about the rules or regulations – the cigarette. As he began to smell the burning tobacco, he turned to Speirs and saw a man that was combat-ready. Speirs saw this look and internalized it. He pulled the box of cigarettes out from his uniform once again, this time extending the box toward the officer. The officer took one of the cigarettes and nodded his head subtly. The officer pulled out his own Zippo. Yes, the man had decided… he liked the soldier who everybody feared. This man would serve his country and his men well.

After a few moments, the officer finished his cigarette and rose.

"We're going to jump momentarily. Everybody rise and check equipment." The officer said loudly, yet calmly. The men followed his orders and began to vocalize their state of preparation, going down the line in order.

"Twenty okay…" Ron said calmly, keeping to himself. The men behind him continued, until they got to the end of the line.

"Three okay…" A soldier tapped the man standing behind him. "Two okay…" The action was repeated. "One okay…"

Upon hearing that all was well, the officer faced the line of men standing in front of him.

"When the light turns green, we'll jump, one after another. I'll jump last, waiting for the last of you to jump." The light, as if on cue, turned green.

The officer looked to Ron knowingly. It was time.

Ron's lips twisted into a smirk. The men behind him saw this and felt a sense of fear – fear that they could not comprehend the man in front of him. In less than a second, he was gone. He hurled himself out of the airplane, letting gravity take him under her wing.

The cold air penetrated his uniform. He felt a sense of fire burning within him. His stomach twisted with excitement as he fell toward the earth below him. In an instant, he felt a strong tug pull him higher in the air. His parachute had opened, allowing him to glide through the air. He saw men around him, above him, and below him… and he was having the time of his life.

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Anya stood in her room, studying the parachutes that were cutting through the sky. She knew, at that instant, that Ron was among them. If this had been any other man, she would have worried. But Ron wasn't any other man.

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Because she slept in and spent a good thirty minutes in front of her window, Anya missed lunch at the Officers' Residences. Dressing in a very casual manner – yet still having a suitable amount of make up on – Anya began the schlep to main Mess Hall. She knew that Dr. Grant would have already eaten by then, and she had no idea who would be there. She strode across the edge of the parade field, passing by Sobel. He was confidently wearing a leather jacket with sheepskin – clearly out of place in his environment.

Sobel saw Anya walk quickly past him. He couldn't stand that woman. The sight of Anya enraged him, ever since she had made a fool of him in front of his men. Every order – every time he told them to run – and then every time he told them to run faster – he reasserted his influence and hold over the men. What Anya did – that young, ignorant, naïve, and immature girl – angered him beyond belief. Every moment since was spent regaining his control, his authority, his command. Not a moment could be wasted.

And her presence in front of a bunch of men – clearly, she was _that_ type of woman. He _hated_ that type of woman. The woman that would sit at the bar downtown during happy hour, coolly sipping her Whiskey Sour, leaving remnants of her seductively rouged lips on the rim of the glass – the woman that would sit there, with the ashtray in front of her, nonchalantly lusting over her cigarette… Anya was _that_ type of woman. The type that he'd try to approach, the type that would tell him she had another man – the type he knew had a _lot_ of men – because she was _that_ type of woman. Sobel hated that type of woman.

He could not and would not stand for that. He respected Colonel Sink less for permitting her presence. Was it that hard to find another man in a tweed suit with a Harvard degree? Weren't those men swarming Cambridge and Manhattan, ready for the picking? Why did they have to settle for _that_ type of woman – her?

Those thoughts swam in Sobel's head as he watched Anya walk toward the Mess Hall. A woman like that needed to be tamed – to be controlled – to be taken, if need be, by some sort of force. She needed to know she wasn't in control – not in this world. Not in this rigidly scheduled and uniformed world – and most certainly not on this base. Sobel saw in Anya every woman that ever turned him down. He saw in her every man that pushed him around and attempted to surpass him. He saw in her every individual that vied for greatness, seeking to outdo him. He saw in her the enemy… and he looked upon her with a sense of hatred.

Anya, as she walked past Sobel, knew all about him. She knew that he would try to pull rank on her – to pull gender – to pull his height, his weight, any advantage he might have perceived himself to have… Anya knew that he would try to make her feel guilty in order to assert himself. It was a type of slow rape – wherein he forced his way upon her, day by day, hour by hour, over the course of weeks and months and even maybe a year… The kind of slow rape where she would be pushed under water, unable to hear or see or think – the kind of slow rape where she would be left silent, unable to stand up for herself, her men, and her ideals.

And she hated it.

When she entered the Mess Hall, she found herself among Easy Company. The men all seemed to be pleased with themselves, which Anya instantly identified as a byproduct of the parachutes she saw from her window. Anya saw their plates and immediately noticed that the Army's version of spaghetti was on the menu. She scanned the large hall for familiar faces. She walked to the chow line, grabbing a tray and picking up a plate full of noodles and red sauce. She grabbed herself a cup of coffee and utensils. With her tray in her hands, she continued to look across the room. She noticed some of the men staring at her – here she was, a woman, not in uniform – a woman who the men clearly recognized as their professor.

"Anya!" She knew that voice. Turning to the noise, she saw Lew raising his right arm to motion her over. Finally, a truly familiar face! She walked toward Lew and seated herself. She noticed that Lew was not sitting with Dick.

"And, your counterpart?" Anya asked.

"He's got mess duty." Lew stated plainly, happy that it was not him in charge of the spaghetti lunch.

"Oh? I didn't think that sort of job would be… you know… asked of him." Anya was curious.

"Good ol' Sobel."

"That son of a bitch!" Anya said loudly, not caring who heard her. Some of the men around her began to chuckle and laugh when they heard her admission.

"Yeah, well, we don't like that man neither." Bill Guarnere interjected.

"I recognize you from class. Your name?" Anya asked, looking over to the man next to her.

"Guarnere. Bill Guarnere." He state with a sense of purpose.

"Well, Mr. Guarnere, it's a privilege. And you can most definitely call me Anya when we aren't in class!" Anya joked. The men around her enjoyed how she was down to earth. She was, after all, sitting among them. It was obvious that she didn't perceive herself to be above the men she was teaching.

Guarnere groaned as he took a bite of the dreadful spaghetti that was on his plate. Perconte and Talbert shared the same reaction.

"This pathetic excuse for pasta is simply dreadful," Anya remarked. "Everyone here deserves better." Anya stated, plainly. Guarnere raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you get what you get. And this ain't too great, but it is what it is." Guarnere stated evenly. Anya could hear his Philadelphia accent come out in full force.

"Well put, sir. You're a Philly man, I see." Anya stated.

"And I hope that ain't a problem."Guarnere playfully retorted.

"I doubt you'd change it if it was." Anya joked. Guarnere laughed. He liked her.

Lew stretched his arms out and stared down at the plate before him. What he would do for a steak. Medium rare with mushrooms and a cream and garlic reduction… What he would to sit down in a nice leather chair – to kick back with a cigarette and a glass of Vat… To pretend as if nothing else mattered but the repetitive motion of bringing his cigarette to and from his lips. To pretend, for a moment, that things were different… like they had been, when he was younger. Younger. If only he was younger. Lewis Nixon was dreadfully afraid of growing old.

He was brought back down to reality as he heard Anya laugh wildly at something Guarnere said. The rest of the men joined with Anya in her laughter, clearly enjoying her company. The men had deserved this rest, Lew thought. They had deserved this meal – even if it was only Army noodles and glorified ketchup.

From the other side of the mess hall, Ron sat pensively. He had finished his meal, eating it quietly, watching over the men and keeping to himself. None of the men sat too close to him. He reveled in this – he loved that he had a reputation. He sensed that the men could tell he was different – a man on fire – a man that nobody would touch with or infringe upon the privacy of.

Ron could hear a feint wisp of what sounded like a distinctly female laughter. _Anya_. There only was one woman on the base who would be here. _Anya_. He heard a bunch of male laughs follow hers. He scanned the room in order to catch a glimpse of her. He saw her sitting next to Lewis Nixon –_ that bastard!_ Ron hated that Lew could be so close to her right now. He had discerned at this point that the two were friends. He loved that Anya wasn't lonely, but he despised the fact that Lewis Nixon could sit so close to her and share so many moments with her. He wanted moments with Anya. He needed to be around her. After last night, he had resigned himself to her. He would only look at her. He didn't want anybody else. He would have her.

And Ron knew, after last night, that Anya wasn't any other woman. Things weren't going to be as easy as they might have been in a different situation. Anya wasn't the type to let him be right. She had fended for herself – and was fending for herself – in a world dominated by men. She had excelled in a field run by men and had graduated with a degree held largely by men. She was the only female doctor that he knew of. Anya, though she was twenty one, had outsmarted and out-powered many men more than twice her age. Ron knew this and realized that she was not going to be an "easy" catch. He knew that if he was to fail, there would be a slew of men waiting to take his place – and that many of those men might be higher in rank than him, militarily or academically.

He saw the way her lips curved into a smile and he observed how strands of hair liberated themselves from her long braid. He noticed her bright green eyes light up as one of the men sitting next to her told a joke. He, at that very instant, wished he was sitting next to her making her laugh. He wanted to be the one telling the joke, worshipping her laughter. Ron, instead, sat to himself with his hands crossed against his chest. He was an observer, if anything. He watched the world unfold in front of him, manifesting itself in its jokes, witty banter, and laughter.

Pangs of light jealousy hit Ron, as he saw how Anya was surrounded by people. Though they were alike, Anya had an ability that Ron did not – she reached out across lines and pulled in the people around her. She captivated the men with her intelligence and charm, interacting smartly and tactfully. She knew how to properly cultivate relationships. Anya Metternich was, of course, a private person. This was something she held in common with Ron. She could force herself out of her shell in order to function socially in ways that Ron could not. Anya did not live for the approval of others, nor did Ron. Anya, however, could speak with people and instill in them a sense of hope, joy, and serenity. Ron came off as confident, gung-ho, and macho. Anya reckoned to herself that if Ron willed it, a sea could be parted. She, like others, understood that Ron wasn't the cuddling and friendly type. Ron had friends, of course – but Ron did not go out of his way. Anya constantly went above and beyond, often without realizing it. This was in her nature.

There was a sense of calm and satisfaction that had fallen over the mess hall. Anya sensed this as she saw the smiles of the men around her. Lew felt this as he looked toward Dick, who was standing looking out from the kitchen. Ron sensed it as he saw the serene look on Anya's face. Bull Randleman, too, felt this.

Randleman sat with his comrades joking over their half-finished food. It was a terrible idea – noodles and ketchup. Bull didn't know much about Italian food, but he knew that it wasn't supposed to taste like this. As he ate the watery noodles, he imagined a roast turkey sitting on his dinner table, in his family's dining room back in Arkansas.

The mess hall's doors burst open suddenly, destroying any sense of serenity that had existed in the room.

Randleman saw Sobel standing purposely in front of the doors, looking as if he was on a mission. The men looked up at Sobel, hoping that he wasn't going to say what they knew he was going to say.

"EASY COMPANY, THERE HAS BEEN A CHANGE OF PLANS. WE WILL BE RUNNING CURRAHEE!" The men groaned.

"Why, that son of a bitch!" Bull burst out, not giving a damn who heard him. The men groaned. Lew stared at Sobel with disbelief, not rising from his seat.

Dick stood still, not knowing what to think. Sobel had promised the men some rest in return for their activity. He had even gone so far as to pick out pasta as a suitable meal for the men. It was at this very point in time that Dick Winters saw that Sobel had crossed a line.

Ron rose from his seat. He had been in the hall because he missed lunch with Dog Company due to a meeting with Colonel Sink. For a moment, he felt bad for the men of Easy Company. He recognized that their drill sergeant was overly excessive by nature. He was using power for power's sake. He saw that Sobel got high off of the way he could control the men around him. Ron saw the control that he held over _his_ men as a type of phenomenon that he would never entirely get used to. Ron would test his power day by day, subtly, as if to check the ground around him. Sobel, however, would boldly assert himself, destroying everything in his path. Ron hated men who had not yet mastered the art of tact and subtlety.

The men of Easy Company had begun to hastily pick up their trays and empty their food out into the garbage. Some of the men slammed their trays down on the table that stood before the doors – as if to show that they were displeased, upset, and pissed off. Other men didn't even think about it. Some men weren't phased by what Sobel asked of them. Others were plainly enraged – they were promised rest. It wouldn't have been as bad had they not been promised rest. They would have stood on their toes and expected business as usual. But this was not the case.

Anya saw the men around her rushing. She rose quietly with an angry look on her face. Lew caught her attention.

"He said that we'd be able to rest and have a meal." Lew sounded like a man who had been fed up.

"He… what?" Anya asked.

"He said that we'd be able to rest. And eat. Rest..." Lew quietly said.

"I hate him." Anya said in a serious tone. "I hate him. I hate the way he looks at the men and the way he looks at me. I hate the way his voice sounds and I hate the way he looks as if he's pleased with himself every time he yells at somebody."

"Well, take solace in the fact that you aren't the only one." Lew said.

"I think it's my fault." Anya said quietly, as the two walked toward the door. "I feel like he's doing this to get back at me, for putting him in his place."

"Don't take all the credit, sweetheart!" Lew stated. "He's hated all of us from the beginning, since we all got here – to this god forsaken, god damned, piece of shit, hole in Georgia!" Lew kicked at the door jam in frustration as he exited the mess hall with Anya. Lew saw that he was falling behind the rest of the men and he sped up. Anya followed closely behind him.

"Meet me for drinks tonight when you're free? Maybe around eight?" Anya asked. "You look like you need to unwind."

"A very good diagnosis!" Lew exclaimed.

"Hey, Lew, watch it! I can't diagnose! I'm not _that_ kind of doctor!" Anya replied in a joking fashion.

"Well, maybe you should be!" Lew said with a smile. Anya sensed that he had to leave, so she nodded her head. Lew ran off to follow the men that were ahead of him.

Anya felt that she, ultimately, was the one to blame for Sobel's interruption. Sobel had seen her walk into the mess hall. He had plenty of time to observe her. He knew she was there and he knew that she would react to his power play. Anya felt solely responsible for the run that the men of Easy were about to go on. She hated it. Anya felt like she wanted to scream, but could not make herself. She felt like she wanted to stab at the air, but she didn't want to come off as insane. She felt enraged and angry. Angry at Sobel, but also angry with herself.

Ron had lingered in the mess hall, and he saw Anya and Lew talking. He felt threatened by Lewis Nixon. He saw the two talk during their meal and he saw them walk out together. He felt, for once, that there was competition. Ron observed Anya and Lew walking together. After the two exchanged words he could not hear, Lew ran off toward the rest of Easy Company. Ron took this as his chance to assert his presence.

Walking quickly – yet casually, of course – toward Anya, Ron thought of what he was going to say to Anya. If it was any other woman, Ron would not have cared… but it was her. As Ron was a foot or so behind Anya, she turned around after she saw his shadow in front of her. Anya looked empty and her eyes looked blank. Ron was shocked.

"Anya?" Ron inquired, hard pressed to find out what happened. If it was Lew, he was going to crack some skulls. "What did he say to you?"

"It wasn't him." Anya answered quietly. "Sobel."

"Sobel…" Ron said. "Anya, they're here to run. The men are here to run. Hell, _I'm_ here to run."

"They're here to run for training, not because of me!" Anya said quickly, the volume of her voice rising. "Sobel is making them run to retaliate. He's angry with me."

"And you had every right to say what you said, back then in class. You have two companies of men and Colonel Sink to vouch for you, you know." Ron said calmly. "Don't get yourself worked up over that son of a bitch. He's not worth it. He's never worth it… and he'll _never_ be worth it."

"You think?" Anya asked as her mood began to lighten.

"I know." Ron stated positively.

"You're so sure of yourself. I wish I had that confidence." Anya mused. Ron heard what she said. She _was_ confident – Ron knew this to be true. He chose not to answer her, however, letting her continue. "He looks at me whenever I walk by him. He looks at me with contempt. He looks at me like he's on the hunt, on the prowl. He smiles at me before he tells the men to run. He's trying to get back at me." Ron internally winced as he heard Anya's admission. He hated knowing that Sobel looked at her in that way. He hated the thought of Sobel getting to her, trying to get into her head and make her feel bad.

"He very well may be. But if you weren't here, I'm sure he'd find another target. It's in his nature. That's the type of person he is. This is probably the only place where he's been allowed to outrank others." Ron stated. His voice was calm, not overly comforting – it wasn't Ron's way.

"I don't know what to do to stop it, though. They're probably getting sick right now," Anya said as she looked toward Currahee to her left.

"They probably are. But that isn't your burden. You have lessons to plan, quizzes to make, and reports to write. You are here doing your job." Ron stated in his calm voice. "And, just so you know… I was impressed by the way you told him off during our first class."

"You were?" Anya asked, as more life returned to her green eyes.

"That took a lot of strength and confidence, Dr. Metternich. I'm sure most of the men here would have tried to shoot him, had they been in your position." Anya chuckled in response to what Ron said. Finally! She had laughed! Ron was pleased with himself. His lips twisted into a slight smile – if one had not looked carefully, one might not have noticed it.

"Well, that's just because I don't know how to fire a gun." Anya countered.

"If you can recall, I believe I told you that I would show you how to shoot." Ron answered. "Last night." Ron finished, briefly alluding to their previous encounter.

"Sometime I'll take you up on that." Anya said this with a smile and then looked down at her watch. "Damn it. I have an appointment. I'm going to have to cut this short."

"And… Mr. Nixon…" Ron said, without even thinking.

"Is just a friend." Anya answered. As she said this, Ron stepped closer toward her.

"And I'll see you again…"Ron asked seductively. He caught her eyes – and held them in a long glance.

"When you see me." Anya finished his sentence. She had wanted him to hold her, to kiss her, to walk with her… And she could feel that he wanted very much the same things. But there is a time and place for everything… and Toccoa was no such place. "I'll talk to you later, okay?" Anya said and Ron nodded. Ron too, understood the sense of longing and disappointment that was evident in Anya's voice. This was no such place for those things which they thought about.

Anya smiled and her eyes widened, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Ron smirked in response to her gestures. Anya pulled away from Ron, and Ron did the same. Anya nodded to Ron and began to walk toward Colonel Sink's office.

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Anya had found her meeting with Sink to be largely unproductive. She could not concentrate on any of the work that she had planned to go over with him – she kept looking toward the window, in the direction of Currahee. She could not get Sobel's orders off of her mind. Wondering if the men were okay, she continued to discuss her plans with Sink. Sink also seemed preoccupied, as he had recently been informed about the escalating situation in both Western and Eastern Europe. The atmosphere in the room was tense.

After an hour of formal conversations and at least four cigarettes later, Anya emerged from Colonel Sink's office desperately in need of some fresh air. She saw herself out of the building and walked toward the Officers' Residences. Anya mindlessly climbed the steps up to her room and fidgeted with the keys as she unlocked her door. Sighing, she entered her room and walked over to the window and slunk down into her leather swivel chair.

Upon seeing the light breeze shake through the barren trees, Anya decided that she wanted to go on a walk. Changing out of her more formal clothing, Anya put on a very casual pair of work pants and a loose fitting thermal shirt. She slipped out of her heels and into her hiking boots, which she was surprised she actually remembered to bring to Toccoa. The boots stood out in her closet among the dressy high heels.

Rushing out of her room and out of the Officers' Residences, Anya inhaled the chilly air and looked around her. Men were going back in forth, lost in their designated activities.

Anya saw Easy Company running across the parade ground, past her. Sobel was behind them, driving his Jeep, asserting his superiority over them. He was yelling obnoxiously at the men in front of him.

"You are all required to report to the airstrip immediately! We will be doing a _second_ jump!" Sobel commanded. The men of Easy Company looked at him unemotionally. They knew his game and they had expected nothing less. The run up Currahee which interrupted their "special" meal of crap spaghetti was downright cruel, however.

Anya felt angry beyond belief. That bastard had made them run – likely to get sick – after he promised them rest. She couldn't stand him, that Machiavellian asshole. She couldn't stand him.

As she saw the men run quickly towards the airstrip, she looked at Currahee. The trees were somewhat barren, though she knew that spring buds would be appearing in a matter of weeks. The mountain pulled her in, as if it was a magnet. She looked at its base, heavily surrounded by forest. Before she could think about what she was doing, she began to walk toward the mountain. She was lost in her walk, and it wasn't long before she found herself more than halfway to the mountain.

Colonel Sink stood at his window in the main suite in the Officers' Residences. He stood in front of his large window, gazing down on the parade field and the mountain that dominated it. He squinted and analyzed the small figure he saw walking toward the mountain's base. The figure was alone. Squinting harder, he saw that the figure was a female – with long, waist-length brown hair. Anya Metternich.

"Well, I'll be damned…" Sink said, as he brought a half-smoked cigar to his lips. He had seen many things in his long military career – hell, in his lifetime – but he hadn't quite seen anything like this.

Anya continued her walk. As she got closer to the base of the mountain, she realized what she was about to do. This was something that had taunted her every day when she looked out from her window over Toccoa's expanse. The mountain greeted her daily as she rose from the comfort of her bed – and it bade her goodnight as she finished her day. Though beautiful, the mountain called out to her day and night, asking to be tamed. It was a beast of burden that needed to be conquered.

As she got to the base of the mountain, she could hear the mountain call out to her. _Please! If you will… I'm here, I'm ready, I'm willing – I'm waiting! Come to me!_ Anya answered the call. She could not retreat. She didn't care who saw her. She needed this – she needed this more than the soil beneath her needed rain.

Anya began her long dance with Currahee. She broke out into a sprint. She hadn't run like this in a long while. In fact, the last running she remembered was a fruitless chase after a taxi on the Upper West Side. It had been a very long time. After about thirty seconds of sprinting, she found it hard to continue. Rather than admit defeat to the mountain, she began to walk. Every minute or so, she burst into sprints. Alternating her sprints with periods of walking and slow jogging, Anya slowly ascended the mountain. She lost herself in her constant motion and the thoughts that swam through her head.

In the mountain, she saw both kindness and courage. She saw Brigadier General Dawson, her father, her dreams, Dr. Grant, her diploma hanging on her wall, the fading scar on her face that constantly reminded her of her humanity, the way in which she hoped Ron would hold her, and the soil beneath her. She thought of the first trains that went across the great American western expanse. She thought of her mother running from Holland, running for her life, running for freedom. Yet, at the same time, she saw malevolence of pain. She saw Max – the graduate student who had used her. She saw Herbert Sobel, laughing cruelly at her from Currahee's peak, taunting her, telling her to quit while she was ahead. She saw Dayna Clark from high school, the insufferable girl who had made fun of her scar… She saw Sacha Deegan from Barnard College – the girl who had tried to steal her thesis. She thought of Panzer divisions invading Poland, destroying the countryside and ending any hope for peace. She thought of Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona. She thought of her father dying and her mother carrying on by herself.

_You are my task. My burden, the weight I must carry. _Anya sprinted with all of her soul. _You are my tears, my joy, and my laughter. _The chilly March air broke into her lungs. _You are the warm droplets of liquor shooting down my throat in the bitter cold and you are the smoke from the cigarettes I should not be smoking. _She ran faster. _You are my prayer, my silent Hail Mary in the forest. _Anya put the entire essence of her being into her movement. She ran with everything she had in her. _You are my hopes and my dreams, the man I want and the life I want to live. _Anya could feel her chest pounding wildly._ I need you._

Anya ran and walked and jogged and sprinted. She pushed herself farther than she had in a very long time. The smell of pine needles penetrated her senses and she became aware of the lonely road on which she was running. The trek to the top of the mountain took Anya an hour, as she switched between jogging, sprinting, and walking.

When Anya reached the top of the mountain, she felt a sense of fulfillment that rivaled gaining her Ph.D. She felt a sense of completeness, as if she found a piece of herself along her ascent up the mountain. She could not see over the military base, for the mountain was heavily forested. She didn't need the view, however. She needed the pine trees and the wilderness. She felt, through her long run, that she had tamed a part of that very wilderness which she so desperately sought. She felt, at that moment, that she was alone – yet part of something. The smell of the pine needles and the chilly winter air sought entry into her being, and she let them gain entry. She sat on a rock, catching her breath, thinking about the beauty that stood around her.

The trees, she felt, could very well have been in existence since the dawn of time. They perfectly guarded the long winding road up to the mountain's apex. Anya began to think, taking in the pine-scented winter air. She wondered what Ron was doing at that very moment. She felt as if she had been too terse with him as she was leaving the Mess Hall. Though she was not in uniform, she felt like being overly friendly with Ron – in public – betrayed a sense of duty that she felt she needed to uphold. She wondered what Colonel Sink would think if he found out about the two – and she shuddered. Anya's thoughts turned to what would happen if she went out with Ron again. She had been so very bold – she thought – last night. Touching him, trying to arouse him, and teasing him. She wanted, above all, for him to take her and have his way with her. She wanted to let him seize control – she was sure he was _that_ sort of man.

Anya felt no sense of shame, however. And she knew, in her very being, that Ron did not think less of her for her bold actions. There was feeling of respect that they shared. Perhaps they acted the way they did because of the unusual circumstances which they found themselves in. Or, perhaps not, Anya reasoned – for she knew that if they had met at a bar, she would have been more than willing to follow him to his bed. Ron, she knew, had other things on his mind as well. Anya viewed him as an enigma – she desperately wanted to figure him out and to spend more time with him. She wanted to talk with him, have coffee with him, and dance with him. He wasn't the dancing sort – she could already tell – but oh, how she would make him dance! She knew, also, that she held that power over him. He would do things with her – for her – that he might not have done for another woman.

She wanted sex – yes, of course, she wanted sex. She wanted _his_ sex. And it was plainly evident from Ron's reaction last night that he wanted the very thing she wanted. But, she wanted something more. She hoped that his interest would last beyond that very act.

She sat for moments – or was it an hour? – lost in her thoughts. Sensing that it was best to make her way down the mountain, Anya rose from the rock she was sitting on. After stretching out her muscles for a few moments, Anya began to jog down the mountain. The descent down Currahee had proved to be much easier than her ascent.

As she reached the base of the mountain, Anya felt a reaffirmed sense of fulfillment. She had finally accomplished Currahee. She wondered what Sobel would have thought if he saw her. He most likely would have laughed. She did not do this for him, however. She did this for herself.

After Anya finally reached her bedroom, she locked her door and laid down to rest in her bed. Her muscles began to ache, and she knew this was an omen of the soreness that would come the next day. Losing track of time, Anya drifted off into a slumber that was only awoken by a few loud knocks at her bedroom door. The knocks became louder and grew in intensity. Anya, hearing the noise, rose from her bed and cursed aloud.

"Jesus Christ! Who the hell is it?" Anya called out to the door, not giving a damn who was there. It could have been General Patton and her attitude would have remained the same.

"What the hell does a man have to do to get a drink around here?!" was the response from the other side of the door. _Lew_, Anya thought. _Of course._ Anya remembered how she had promised Lew drinks at eight o'clock, after they had left the Mess Hall. Still dressed in the clothes had worn while running Currahee, Anya turned on her bedroom light and walked to the door.

As she opened the door, she saw a half-smirking New Jersey boy standing in front of her.

"That thirsty, huh?" Anya inquired.

"You have no idea." Lew responded. He eyed Anya and felt surprised by her very informal thermal shirt and work pants that she had been wearing. "New clothes?"

"Yeah, purchased right out of the Macy's on the base." Anya retorted back.

"If there isn't a bottle of Vat in your desk I'm going to die." Lew stated wryly.

"Well, God forbid. Seat yourself and wait just a minute." Anya responded, as she walked over to her closet and retrieved a sweater. Wrapping herself in the sweater, she walked over to her swivel chair and sat down.

"Sleep well?" Lew asked with a smile.

"You could say that." Anya said shortly. She pulled two rocks glasses and her bottle of Vat from her desk drawer and placed the coveted items on her desk. After opening her bottle with the precision of a surgeon, Anya began to pour two generous glasses of whiskey.

"You're an angel, you know that?" Lew said, almost sarcastically.

"What a compliment!" Anya said, faking gratitude. "A girl could get used to that!"

"Well, don't get yourself too worked up, toots." Lew continued with your banter. "I see you're still tired from your date last night."

"Don't you even start…" Anya began, hoping he would heed her advice and change the subject.

"Too late."

"I'm tired, because I went out for a walk." Lew coughed when Anya said this. "And I had a nice time last night, just so you know."

"I need to know more than that." Lew countered.

"That bored, eh?" Anya asked.

"I've been living with hundreds of men for the past six months. So, by comparison, this is highly intriguing." Lew reasoned. "And, of course, I enjoy watching you squirm." Anya's face reddened. "Who's the guy? A soldier?" Anya didn't answer and looked down at her glass of whiskey. "A soldier it is!"

"Now, don't go jumping to any conclusions, Mr. Nixon…" Anya attempted to contain Pandora's box.

"Far too late for that, Miss Metternich. Do I know him?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Lew asked. "I need more than that."

"He's in D Company." Anya answered. Lew was going to find out sooner or later. She had began to give up any hopes of privacy.

"Well, isn't that a damned shame. Easy Company men are far better, you know." Lew joked. It was then that a thought popped into Lew's head. "He's in our class."

"Yes… he is." Anya capitulated and answered him.

"God damn. It's that guy that won the pass for last night. He took you out on a date." Anya's mouth opened after Lew's admission. "It was! I'm right!"

"Lew," Anya started. "I would appreciate it if you didn't spread the word, considering this is our workplace and all…"

"No, no, don't worry about it, Anya. This is just for my _personal _amusement."

"How comforting." Anya remarked wryly.

"So… you have a thing for Mr. Ronald Speirs." Lew said. "Ronald Speirs." Lew sounded his name out, paying clear and distinct attention to each syllable. "D Company men are afraid of him, you know." Lew stated randomly.

"How would you happen to know that, Mr. Nixon?" Anya said with disbelief.

"I just so happen to be training for a position with the intelligence branch of our very fine military." Lew said, with a false air of superiority.

"Oh, shush you! You don't know shit from shinola!" Anya exclaimed.

"Say what you will about my superb intelligence gathering ability, but I stand with that statement. They're afraid of him. He's a cold man. I'm amazed you can tolerate him."

"He isn't like that." Anya defended him. "He isn't like that at all."

"Well, he must really like you then." Lew paused for a moment. "If he treats you like shit, however, I'm going to make life on this base very hard for him."

"I thought the men were afraid of him?" Anya countered.

"Yes, but I can pull a few strings higher up." Lew stated confidently.

"Oh, you mean pull rank just like Sobel does." Anya interjected.

"Precisely." Lew concluded, as he brought his glass of Vat to his lips. He took in its intoxicating flavor as he leaned back in his chair.

Anya withdrew a Lucky Strike from the box that was on her desk. She brought the cigarette to her lips and struck a light with her Zippo. Sighing contently as she removed the cigarette from her lips, Anya's thoughts returned to Ron. He was such an enigma to her. She saw him a way that others didn't seem to see him. He showed her a side of him that was not easily accessible – in fact, it was rarely, if ever, accessible. Anya relished in this thought.

Anya offered the box of cigarettes to Lew but he declined.

"I don't know what you see in him." Lew said bluntly.

"I don't know, Lew… it just sort of… happened." Anya admitted. "I don't know what's going to happen, though. This isn't really the ideal situation… I don't know."

Lew, sensing that Anya felt genuine emotions for Ron, decided that it was best if he stopped asking questions. Anya seemed almost depressed because of the situation. Lew finished his glass of Vat and decided to change the subject.

"Do you have any idea of where our division is going?" Lew asked, referring to the war. Anya knew he was talking about the division in this context.

"Europe, logically." Anya reasoned. "You'd be getting lectures on Japan and the Far East if there was any chance you all were heading out to the Pacific Theatre. I only say this knowing that you'll keep it to yourself, but there are no plans to include lectures on Japan. Dr. Grant and I are only lecturing on Europe. We're focusing on Germany – not Japan – as the enemy. We won't be giving the men any information about Asia at all."

"You've just reaffirmed my feelings. Judging by the way the campaign is going in Europe, a division of paratroopers would be best suited to that environment."

"Precisely," Anya continued. "The Japanese aren't fighting in a fashion that would enable paratroopers to successfully engage them. Also, the fighting in Asia is being done on islands, many of which are in total control of the Japanese Army. It would be a waste of paratroopers, honestly. We need the Navy, the Army, and the Marines for that sort of thing. They don't need men jumping out of airplanes attempting to engage the enemy."

"Italy or Germany?" Lew posed a simple question.

"Good question. I'm not lecturing on Italy… at all. Mussolini's a chump, Lew. Hitler's the real deal. That Italian savage can't exist without the existence of Hitler. He's a bottom feeder. We're going for the top of the food chain."

"You'd be really useful to the Intelligence Department," Lew stated. "You think in terms of how the men are useful and what is or is not pragmatic. That's a valuable trait."

"Well, aren't you a charmer!" Anya interjected.

It was eleven o'clock by the time Lew had left Anya's room. The two joked about their upbringing, their schooling, and the people they had encountered along the way. Three glasses of Vat later, Anya and Lew parted ways. Anya, making a quick snack with some food items she had scrounged from the Mess Hall storage earlier in the week, laughed to herself as she consumed her shoddy quality midnight snack.

After having another Lucky Strike, Anya slipped out of her clothes and into a silk chemise. Taking in the soft texture which felt cool and smooth against her own skin, she made her way to her bed and got under the covers. It wasn't long before Anya fell asleep.

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**End of Chapter 10. **Thanks for reading this installment!

Note: If you want to find out what "You don't know shit from shinola!" means, google it. I find that phrase sooooo amusing.


	11. Chapter 11

Note: To all who are following this story, I hope you enjoy it. Life has gotten very busy which has contributed to a lack of updates. I had originally hoped to crank out a chapter a week but that just hasn't been the case. Anyways… On a side note, if you like the story or if you have any feedback, please review! (Tsk tsk – it's motivating!)

Anyways, this chapter came out much more slowly due to a case of writer's block. I had about three different ideas of what was going to happen, one of which I was leaning toward – taking this story a lot faster. In the end I opted for a longer story with longer chapters – and more chapters.

**Chapter 11**

Many had hoped that things would get better – that was, the war would cool down and reduce the need for increased numbers of American troops. This was not the case. As March and April passed by in Georgia, the Japanese had increased their stranglehold in the Pacific. The Germans, in the same vein, continued to goose step over the European continent. The world was clearly one at war.

Anya had gone about her work. In class, she continued to lecture vivaciously. She would take note of Ron in every class, at the same time hoping not to get "caught" glimpsing him. She also could see Lew peering over to the left side of the lecture hall, in an attempt to study Ron. Lew, clearly proud of his ability to work in Intelligence, continued to silently investigate Ron during Anya's lectures. This was a source of great amusement to Anya, who pretended to ignore what was happening.

Every other day, when she was sure that she would be alone, she practiced running Currahee. Her attempts were less cathartic than the first time Anya had conquered the mountain. Anya's goal was to be able to run Currahee up and down without stopping to walk and catch her breath. Three weeks passed by – and Anya noticed her muscles getting stronger. She also noticed she had a greater appetite and began to seek out more protein rich foods. Her face looked brighter and more full of life, and she could even feel a difference in her hair and nails. The Georgian countryside was clearly treating her well.

She had made herself purposely hard to find. Anya was incredibly confused about how to proceed with her relationship with Ron. Above all, she wanted him. She knew that he wanted the same. The thought of the scandal that would ensue if they engaged in a relationship and it became public worried her. She worried more for Ron, however. The military was not her niche. If she quit her job at Toccoa and went back to New York, she'd have a plethora of job offers waiting for her. Her potential and her expertise were well known and she was regarded as an expert in her field. Though many employers would never have thought of hiring a woman, they were attracted to her ability to complete jobs efficiently and with great care. Ron, however, had found his home in the military. This was something that Anya had perceived from the moment she came across him. If a scandal had ensued, Ron would have been the one at a distinct disadvantage. Anya could have let the chips fall and walked away with her career intact. Though she most certainly would not have done so, she could easily have placed the blame on Ron – a man who had overpowered her. Anya, in the event of a scandal or rumors, had the higher ground.

And so Anya avoided Ron, all the while reminding herself that it was for a good cause. Maybe when the war was over – maybe, just maybe – this was something the two could pursue. Anya didn't want to get her hopes up. It was easier to place her faith in abstract concepts rather than concrete relationships – there would be no disappointment.

The weather had turned quickly in northern Georgia. Anya could feel the air becoming less crisp. On her jogs up Currahee, she began to see fresh buds on the trees that lined her route. She also saw a lightness permeate through the ranks of the men at Toccoa. Moods began to lighten as the sun's rays grew stronger and the verdure surrounding Toccoa became less barren. This delighted Anya and made the base feel altogether more human.

On Thursday, April 22, Anya walked into her lecture room with a cup of coffee clenched in her right hand. Coming clad in a casual dress and heels, Anya had decided to leave her father's book satchel in her room. She carried a purse around her shoulder. Upon waking up and showering, Anya had decided that she would dress like a civilian today – not an employee of the military. She wore natural looking make up that accentuated her features and her hair was stylishly coiffed. Whereas Anya usually opted for a more conservative tweed print outfit, she felt inspired by the Georgian spring.

She had strolled in exactly at 9 AM, and the men were already in their seats ready for class to start.

"Good morning, all!" Anya said as she walked to her desk and put her purse down. "Today we'll be discussing the events of 1939, which unfortunately are the reason why we are all here today. There will be a quiz next Tuesday on this material, as I think it's incredibly important. And now for one of my least favorite years in recent history – 1939." Anya went to the board and took out a piece of chalk. She wrote the word "appeasement" in her neat cursive handwriting.

"Some people will merely tell you that this word means to 'cause peace'. I disagree. When you appease somebody, you give into their demands hoping that peace will be the result. In other words, you sell a bit of yourself to your enemy – sacrificing your principles – hoping that your enemy will be satisfied. 1939 is haunted by this word, appeasement." Anya underlined the word that was on the chalkboard. "And I hate that word along with everything it stands for. In the fight between good and evil, you can't take the middle road and hope everything will turn out in your favor. It won't. You can't compromise with that. And, as for my use of the term "evil", I stand by that. I believe that this war is a just war – that is, a moral battle. I believe that Hitler is evil and that his Nazis represent the antithesis of everything a decent human being should stand for. And I stand by that statement, with all of my being." Anya paused and added quietly, "And with my life."

The men stared at Anya, knowing full well that she had become lost her in thoughts. Dick was thoroughly impressed with her, for he had shared many of her beliefs. Lew, ever the cynic, still admired her.

Sobel, however, broke the calm mood that was in the classroom. Raising his hand, he did not wait for Anya to allow him to speak.

"So you're insinuating that the British are evil?" He said. The entire room turned to look at him. "What a scathing way to paint our allies, Doctor. They stood alone in the world against aggressors, yet you belittle them."

"Sir, when you raise your hand, you are asking for permission to speak. You do not have permission to speak unless I permit it. Furthermore, I am sure you know very well by now that there is great danger in making assumptions that are not founded on any basis of truth." Anya felt no sympathy for the man sitting before her. "Unless you have anything _constructive _to say, I will return to my lesson, as we have a lot of material to cover."

Anya began her lesson and continued talking about appeasement, Neville Chamberlain, the acquisition of Czechoslovakia, and the shock and outrage that later ensued.

Some of the men raised their hands and asked questions during the lecture, and Anya pleasantly and politely responded to them. Questions that involved people thinking deeply and raising important issues didn't bother Anya. Sobel's mean questions, however, did. Anya was happy that the men before her were taking an interest in the material.

Webster and Guarnere had asked questions. After Anya had finished answering them, she saw Ron's hand go up confidently. The men around him had been looking at Anya, so they had no idea that their feared comrade was raising his hand. Anya was surprised yet secretly pleased that Ron had raised his hand. She had longed to hear his voice – albeit in private – but looking at him and holding his attention was all she could have for now.

"Lieutenant Speirs." Anya said confidently, attempting to mask any sense of joy she had when pronouncing his name. She didn't want the men to notice how she had desperately hoped that Ron would ask a question – she didn't want them to notice how she wanted to seductively say his name over and over. She wanted to moan his name – and god forbid any of these men found out.

The men had been surprised when they heard Anya say Ron's name. Many became suddenly interested as they had no idea of what to expect from the hard-ass sitting next to them. Lew cocked his right eyebrow up and turned his head to look at Ron.

"Doctor, do you suppose that appeasement will be Neville Chamberlain's legacy?" Ron asked coldly, in a voice devoid of emotion.

"A very good question, Lieutenant Speirs." Anya said, hoping that her tone of voice sounded neutral. "I think that history will remember Neville Chamberlain's foreign policy as a waste. It doesn't matter what domestic programs he may have had – this sort of history doesn't care for the reforms, the social programs, or the fanfare. The history we are currently studying cares about the waste, the want, and the need. Appeasement was a waste – of time, resources, and energy. Chamberlain also felt confident that he could reason with Hitler – the key word here is 'reason'. Chamberlain operated under the incorrect assumption that Hitler was a reasonable man who would act rationally and keep up his end of the bargain. But then you have the first day of September in Poland, 1939. A German panzer division trampled over the Polish border. The Polish cavalry came up to meet the German panzers – men on horseback meeting their certain deaths at the hands of technology vastly superior to their own. I think that's such a terrifying and tragic concept. But that was the point of no return. That was the point when there was nothing more for Neville Chamberlain to finagle out of the situation. That was the point when _appeasement_ proved futile. And on September 3, two days later, Britain declared war on Germany." Anya was pleased with Ron's question, which had allowed her to finish up the material on _how_ Nazi Germany had ignited the flames of war in Europe.

"And so this is where we stand." Anya continued, clearly moving past Ron's question and onto a much broader topic. "This is why I'm in front of you and this is why you're wearing those uniforms. This is why we're rationing food and fabric and rubber and metal, and this is why we're growing Victory gardens. This is why we're selling bonds and making bombs. And this is why – above all – we can't settle for appeasement! _That's_ why we have to win! There's no decency in the war that the enemy is waging – where is the valor in that? They had God damned panzer tanks, against men on horseback! On horses!" Anya's voice echoed through the room. "There's no mercy. There's no compassion. Their leadership is corrupt and has a twisted sense of morality. There's nothing _just_ about that sort of war. And _that_ is why we're here at Toccoa in the middle of April."

Anya scanned the room and some of the men looked surprised. Others looked bored. Some looked inspired. Sobel looked angry – he hated whenever Anya had succeeded in proving a point. He hated whenever she had some sort of success with the men, for he always felt that her successes came at the expense of his.

Lew had been studying Ron as he asked his question and looked intently at Anya. It was at that point that Lew knew he didn't have to worry about Ron and Anya. He knew that Ron would take care of her – a fear that weighed heavily on his mind. Anya had evolved into a member of Lew's family on the base. He struggled with the idea of her going on dates or fraternizing with any of the men in uniform on the base. He often feared the worst. With Ron, however, Lew had begun to feel less anxiety about Anya dating. If Ron hurt her, however, there would still be hell to pay. This class, though, made Lew feel a tad bit better about the thought of Ronald Speirs.

"Well, that was quite a class, guys. Great discussion, by the way." Anya commented. "As I stated previously, there will be a quiz on this material next Tuesday. You should all be familiar with how I structure my quizzes at this point. As per usual, the highest scorers will get their names put in a hat and the winner will get a pass for Saturday night. If thirty percent of you all get a B, though, there will be a new film premiered here on the base." The men cheered and whooped. "I know, I know. Never before seen! Which, of course, will be a change from having to see the same story for the sixth time in three weeks." Laughter followed. "So, in short, good luck studying and I hope you all do well on the quiz. Have a good weekend, all."

The men empted the lecture hall at varying speeds. The Easy men exited the room quickly, as there was a jump scheduled for them following the lecture, courtesy of good ol' Sobel. Most of Dog Company retreated from the room quickly as well. Ron had exited the room with the other men, but stayed outside by the door until all of the men had left the lecture hall. Turning back into the room, Ron saw that Anya was sitting at her desk going over notes. As he entered, he quietly shut the door behind him and locked it.

He had decided that today he would say something. Anya had been avoiding him, it seemed, for over a month. He knew that she had not found another man – he was positive of this. The emotion and the passion that Anya had put into arousing him on their date had acted as proof of this. Ron sensed that Anya was apprehensive and he wanted to speak to her.

Anya looked up from her notes as she heard Ron enter the room.

"Ron…" Anya stated, trying to avoid an awkward moment. Anya had longed for the man that was now standing so dangerously close to her.

"You're very hard to find." Ron said huskily, walking closer to her. With ever step closer to Anya, he closed the gap that stood between them.

"I've been busy." Anya answered, trying to make an excuse.

"But not busy enough to share a drink with Lewis Nixon." In truth, Ron had felt pangs of jealousy whenever he noticed Ron and Anya close. He knew, however, for whatever reason that if there was a battle between Lew and himself for Anya's heart, he would be the victor.

"How do you know about that?" Anya asked, all of a sudden wondering how close Ron had been watching her.

"I have my sources." Ron answered confidently. "Why have you been avoiding me?"

"I…" Anya started. "I'm… I'm sorry, Ron." She began to apologize. "You're my student. I'm your professor. We both have the same boss. Imagine what would happen if people found out."

"We both know that you could walk away and find a job anywhere else… this is _my_ issue. I'm the one wearing the uniform; I'm the one in a chain of command." Ron said plainly. "I'd take the blame." At this point in whatever relationship they had, Anya had established that Ron was a gung-ho individual who, when set on a goal, was hell-bent on accomplishing it. The opposition be damned.

"You shouldn't have to." Anya said quietly. "I don't want you to lose what you've worked hard for. I can tell that the military means a lot to you." Anya felt, for once, dumb for bringing these issues up. It had suddenly occurred to her that the time she had spent avoiding Ron could easily have been spent _with_ Ron, enjoying time with him.

"There are things in this world more important than rank. We both know this." Ron stated. "And I also know that you aren't avoiding just because of our jobs. Please be honest with me."

"You won't be the first man I've been with." Anya stated. Ron had assumed this, but hearing her say those words made him wince. He didn't want to think about anybody else partaking in Anya. "And I only say that because I've been badly hurt before. I'm afraid of being hurt and used again." She said this honesty and sincerely. Her admission, however, made Ron boil with anger. The thought of another man being with Anya was bad – but the thought of a man lucky enough to be in that position who had _hurt_ her enraged him. He instantly thought of who this other man could be, and whether or not he had been a soldier or a higher ranking officer on the military base. The thought of a man so close to him to who had hurt her would not sit well with him.

"Forget him. Get him out of your history. You have no use for that memory, Anya." Ron's voice had quieted and he walked closer to Anya. He looked at her and she rose from her chair and stood in front of him. "I won't hurt you." Ron added very softly.

"I know." Anya said with the same tenderness. Ron began to play with some of the hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"Now that you know, will you see me again?" Ron asked.

"I'll think about it…" Anya said playfully. Ron smiled. _His smile_. Anya thought. It held the worth of the world in it, as she knew this was something that other people never saw. This smile was _hers_.

Ron had come dangerously close to Anya. She felt her face growing warm and she hoped desperately that he would kiss her. Looking into her eyes, he smiled and held her gaze. Ron cupped her cheeks and continued to gaze into the very depths of her being. Rather than moving in for a kiss, Ron pulled away, all the while continuing to look at her.

"There will be a better time and a better place." Ron said, almost randomly, as if he was talking to the air. "I can promise you that." Ron leaned in and kissed Anya on the forehead. He pulled himself away again and stood before her, feet away from her.

Anya did not know what to say. She was not worried that Ron had made a decision against seeing her again – she knew that was not the case. Ron, like herself, wanted things to be different – but such was their life.

"I believe you." Anya said, out of the blue. Those words had meant more to Ron than anything he had heard Anya say to him before. Ron said nothing in response, but Anya knew that he had internalized her words. This had been enough for her.

Anya's lips twisted into a coy smile and she looked at Ron with a sense of confidence. The man who stood before her had exemplified all of her values and her beliefs – though she knew less about him than she would have liked. Anya knew she was operating on blind emotion rather than concrete facts. She had been trained in school to make decisions based on facts – however Dr. Grant had shown her how to act on feelings and emotional yearnings. Anya saw no wrong in her assessments of Ron.

Ron, sensing that there was nothing left to say, let his lips curve upward into a slight smile. Knowing that Anya and himself had a special connection that could not be torn apart, he was satisfied. With this satisfaction he turned away from Anya and left the lecture hall.

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Anya's afternoon had largely been uneventful. After making sure that the men from Easy Company would not be on Currahee, she changed into her jogging outfit and made her way to the mountain. This became her ritual, often practiced every other day. On days when work became too stressful, Anya made a point to run even harder. The time it took her to run up the mountain had decreased as her training progressed. The intervals between running and walking had lessened, and she was becoming more and more able to make her way up the mountain without slowing her pace.

Currahee, Anya had decided, was her goal. Now, this goal had been nearly accomplished. She had forced herself into a routine and she had stuck to it, and there was no doubt in her mind that she would be able to run up and down the mountain – _three miles up, three miles down _– successfully. She decided, when she reached the peak of Currahee that day, that she needed a new inspiration and a new goal to strive toward. Perhaps this goal would not be her own – perhaps it would be thrust upon her. Regardless, Anya knew that she needed something to look forward to – this would save her from boredom, which she found easy to come by.

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James Grant's private study was something out of legend. Old books lined the walls and there was a distinct smell that could only be summed up in one word: "scholarship". James sat at his desk in an old-fashioned leather chair and presided dutifully over the notes that were sprawled out in front of him. With the aid of his reading glasses, he analyzed the findings that were sitting in front of him. A fountain pen was at the ready, eager to help him make corrections and jot down new ideas. The room was dimly lit by a few library lamps. Nighttime had already approached, and the curtains behind James were drawn closed.

James looked over a letter that he was in the process of drafting.

_It is my sincerest belief that an invasion of the Normandy coastline is the only way to eradicate the threat of Nazism from Europe. The German military will expect such an invasion to occur at Pas de Calais, which is separated by the narrowest portion of the English Channel. It would be wise to employ counterintelligence in order to plant the idea that the Allied Forces are indeed planning to land on Calais. In truth, however, the landings should occur farther south-west from Calais. _

James' letter was to be sent to the brass in the United States military. He continued to read over his notes and jottings with great precision. As James began to draft another paragraph of the letter, he heard a knock on his door.

"You may enter." James stated. He knew his guest would be friendly – however his time in the Army had taught him to always have a pistol at hand. This was a source of amusement for Anya, who often wondered what good a pistol was in a desk drawer. _"Doc, are you that scared somebody will steal your research?" _Anya would often ask. James would always respond by looking at her with a serious face, often answering something to the effect of _"One never knows_".

Anya opened the door and walked into James' study. Smiling, James took this as his cue to open the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieve a bottle of brandy from its depths. He pulled out two glasses and placed them on the table. Opening the bottle, he poured a generous serving into each glass. Anya took this, undoubtedly, as her invitation to sit down.

"Well, this is a welcome that I've sorely missed, to be quite honest." Anya stated. She had not been able to meet privately with James for weeks, as she had been thoroughly caught up in meetings with Sink as well as other military superiors.

"It's so that you can wash down the news I'm about to give you." James stated, bluntly. Anya raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" She picked up her glass from the table and drew it to her lips, taking in the warm liquor that greeted her throat.

"Oh yes." James took a sip of his brandy. "We're going to Europe, my dear." Anya almost choked on her liquor.

"For what purpose, James? To give more lectures? In a war zone?"

"Intelligence gathering. Such activities will be of prime importance to ending the war in Europe." James, again, was blunt.

"I thought that there already was a department working their asses off for that, James." Anya reasoned.

"Well, when I told Sink that you would be one hundred percent in favor of going to Europe with me, I had no idea that you'd react like this!"

"You what?!" Anya exclaimed, putting her drink down on the table. "You did not." James smiled. "You didn't." James' smile grew wider. "Oh God. You did."

"And so I did!" James said with a twinkle in his eyes. "You and I will follow this division en route to England, where we will work in the Intelligence Division."

"This is… really unexpected." Anya commented, surprised at what she had just heard. After a long pause, she continued. "Well, count me in."

Life at Toccoa had revealed to Anya a world full of new possibilities, one that she had be unable to access while she lived in Manhattan. While it would be easy to resume her old life back in New York, she felt at once that if she did not go with Dr. Grant to England, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She knew that there would likely be an amount of danger involved. She knew that it would be difficult – and she also knew that she was largely unaware of what she was getting into. She also knew that Dr. Grant and the other higher ranked officers on this base knew what she was capable of. Her decision, however, was driven mainly by the fact that she knew there would be nothing for her in Georgia once the men were deployed. And, there would be nothing for her in New York, as her colleagues at the Independent Research Institute were all either working for Intelligence with the government in one way or another. For the first time in Anya's life, she felt that if she had not made this decision, she would have reached a dead end.

"I already had." Dr. Grant said, with a smirk. James' gung-ho attitude motivated Anya. By throwing her in situations like he had, he forced her to fend for herself and act in her best interest. By the time they had finished their work in Europe, James wanted Anya to think strategically all the while balancing her pragmatism with her emotions. He wanted her to live her life to the fullest, yet live her life smartly and courageously. Whenever he felt like he was able to bring out the best in her, he was constantly reminded that Anya was the daughter he never had.

"When do we leave?" Anya said, cutting quickly to the chase.

"September." April was now drawing to a close and there would be four months until the beginning of September. Anya wondered whether or not these months would fly quickly past her. She almost hoped that they would, as she itched to prove herself and to evolve in a new environment.

"That's four months." Anya stated. Four months of teaching. Four months of preparing. Four months of learning and potentially experiencing new things.

"And we'll be put to work during those four months. I assure you that you won't get bored. We have preliminary reports that we need to go over as well as regiment profiles of enemy troops. Our focus is on Nazi Germany."

"As for Italy?" Anya asked curiously.

"Italy will fall."

"You share in my sentiments, James. And as for the Soviet Union?" Anya asked with a smirk.

"Already mistrusting our allies?" James asked jokingly.

"Eh, don't say I'm calling this one too early, but I don't think the large Red Army run by a Communist dictator is going to go over real well Stateside." Anya took out a cigarette and lit it. She offered one to James and he declined, opting for a tobacco pipe that he pulled out from one of his desk drawers. _He would!_ Anya thought. _Of course he would._ The sweet smell of the tobacco filled the room and the blend of brandy, tobacco, and old books was intoxicating.

"Again, we share in our sentiments… Anya, you're fluent in French, correct?" James asked.

"Oui." Anya stated coyly.

"Very good, as I expected. You know, they say the second foreign language you learn comes much more easily than the first." James said, leaving Anya a hint.

"You don't say." Anya stated curiously.

"Every weekday, from one to four pm, you'll be having German lessons." James stated, without regard to any plans Anya might have had. "And there's no debating that one."

"Oh God." Anya stated knowingly. "And what if I don't manage to learn German in four months?"

"You will. I'm not worried about that." James corrected Anya.

"As long as I never have to learn Russian." Anya said randomly, knowing that if she debated this she'd be fighting a losing battle.

"Nein, that would be torture." James answered, as he took a drag from his pipe.

"I also speak Dutch, James." Anya stated randomly, thinking about her mother.

"How well?" James asked.

"Conversationally… I can't write in it at all though. I suppose it's more broken now than ever, as I only really speak to my mother in English. Dutch died with my father."

"Five days in Nijmegen and I'll be damned if it doesn't improve." James reasoned.

"James, nobody is perfect. What if I don't learn…" Anya started.

"None of that talk. Three hours a day, five days a week, for four months straight. I can bet money on it."

"Don't make too high a wager. Learning French didn't come to me as easily as you might think it would. Again, nobody is perfect." Anya tried to reason with James, hoping that his high expectations of her would not tarnish any image he had of her, had she failed to meet them.

"Lessons start tomorrow, Anya. Nine o'clock in the morning. Come with your coffee." James continued. As he spoke, the situation became all the more real for Anya. This was really happening. This wasn't some dramatic fictitious spy novel. This was going to be her life – and this was starting now.

"Well, at least I won't be bored…" Anya mused. James smiled and took another drag from his pipe.

"And, I needn't mention that the words which have transpired between us are meant to be kept between ourselves. Colonel Sink knows, aside from myself, and you are only permitted to discuss this matter with him and me. 'Tis the rules of the game."

"And what a game you've made me play, James." Anya remarked.

"Only because I know you can do it. You're capable of more than you think. Don't doubt yourself. You have four months, dear girl. You left doubt at the door when you agreed to come to this base. Brigadier General Dawson always had high hopes for you. This is, no doubt, what he had in mind. You'll go far."

"We'll go far," Anya corrected. She was beginning to feel ambitious. "Think of the history we'll get to write."

"I'm sure you'll write far more about this than I will ever be able to. The future is never certain."

"Exactly. And that's why we'll write this together."

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Anya withdrew a blank notebook from her desk, the next week. She had decided that she would return to a practice which she had only ever considered in grade school – keeping a personal journal. If it had been found, she would later remark to herself, it would probably have been a coveted item by the enemy or even the press. Anya would take this journal with her through the war.

_Four months. I have begun to learn basic German words and phrases, as well as the easy verbs. This language is a lot more like English than I thought. Perhaps James was correct when he said that the second language always comes easier. I often think about Dutch when I'm in class, which is distracting. Maybe I'll get the chance to speak it again in Holland… if I ever go to Holland._

_The quiz on Tuesday was successful and the guys ended up getting movie privileges. I probably would have fudged the numbers and given the film rights to them anyways, honestly. This base can be a burden – so many are unaware of the sacrifices people are making here. I am reminded of those girls in the church, when I went to that Wagner performance with Ron. They seemed unaware of the sacrifice, yet blinded by the prestige of the uniform. Nobody knows._

_I've seen Ron in class, and that's about all. Maybe _he_ is avoiding _me_ now. I don't know anymore. Men are difficult. I'm surrounded by them daily, and it can be obnoxious. Again, a situation that many wouldn't understand. I don't have the heart to complain. Maybe this is because I've been reading more about the deteriorating situation in Europe and in the Pacific. What are my complaints in light of that? Meaningless. _

_Whenever I observe Ron in class, I can tell that the men around him fear him. They respect him, but I don't know what he's done to earn that respect. I often wonder why they look up to him, yet stay so distant. What has he done to achieve such a reputation? Only time will tell. I wonder how that will pan out in war. He seems to be a natural leader. I've also seen him before, on the training grounds. He also seems to be a natural killer. For some sick reason, I admire this. It turns me on and it intrigues me._

_Four more months. Who the hell knows._

Anya closed her book and put it back in the drawer. She retreated to her bed and turned out the light, drifting off into a world of sleep. Nobody knows.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**: Thanks for the encouraging reviews. They mean a lot. Hopefully everybody finds this chapter worth their while!

We're going to see a lot more of Jack Dawson in this chapter – and a lot more of him in the story. Everybody is connected to each other in some way or another. Everybody. And that all being said, this is THE most epic chapter yet. By far. This is also my favorite chapter so far because I feel like now that this chapter is written so many amazing things can happen to all of the characters and the story can really take the hell off.

That being said, I just had a funny thought. I wonder what Ron, Anya, Dr. Grant, Colonel Sink, Lewis Nixon, and Jack Dawson would all be like at a poker game.

Oh, and of course, a warning. This story is rated M. This chapter most certainly lives up to that so be forewarned.

**Chapter 12**

The icy wind hit Jack Dawson's face and brought him back to the harsh reality of the Austrian mountains. He looked down at his watch and sighed with disappointment when he realized that he still had over five hours left out in the elements.

The Brigadier General was something of legend among his men. Sent on the hazardous intelligence gathering mission, his men had been trained to endure the harshest conditions. They were prepared to die before they surrendered any information they had. When Dawson's elite group was being sent to a mountainous region in Austria, he elected to go with him. Fresh off of a rather nasty divorce settlement, many didn't question his decision.

Jack was born and raised in Montana. He had seen the mountains before and he was a proficient equestrian. At an early age, his father taught him how to hunt, shoot, and read the land. When Jack Dawson thought of endless books and reports, his mind drifted off to Anya Metternich. Those lengthy tomes belonged to Anya and her fellow researchers. The land, however, belonged to Jack Dawson. It opened itself up to him in a way unknown to most people. He often would stand in Washington and look over the capitol buildings, lamenting the loss of his country's respect for the land. The countryside, he would always maintain, was being lost in a sea of bureaucracy – sky scrapers, highways, subways, telephone lines, and railways.

It was right after Anya had delivered her speech in New York City – the last time he saw her – when his wife, Claudette, had informed him that she wanted a divorce. For a woman of more modest means, divorce was rare. Breaking away from her male counterpart – the breadwinner of the family – meant being looked down upon and giving up a life of presumed comfort for a life of hardship and even poverty. Claudette, however, was not a woman of modest means. Her father had been a steel magnate out in Pennsylvania, her mother an Englishwoman from north Derbyshire.

The marriage, for Jack, had been convenient. It had been _easy_. It was a way for him to attend his military functions with a woman on his arm – it was a way to avoid questions and to maintain a sense of normality. With Claudette on his arm, he was able to retreat from the social spotlight while she entertained and socialized. He wondered, often, what Claudette even saw in him. He was handsome – he knew this – and this was often remarked. 'The military? A handsome man like that?' many would say, upon learning of his profession. Good looks did not a marriage make, and Jack Dawson was aware of that. He was the son of a rancher and a nurse, certainly not from an elite social circle.

After she told him she was leaving him, Claudette revealed herself to Jack. She saw in him adventure, escape, and spontaneity. She saw in him a way to escape the expectations of her socially concerned family. The only thing that had made her father accept Dawson was his rank, which had been fairly established by the time he met Claudette. Claudette told him little else, in regards to the divorce.

Jack, by that point, had been emotionless. They had not slept with each other in over eight months, a clear nail in the coffin for their marriage. He often went out of his way to go on intelligence gathering missions, usually to avoid her constant questions. Claudette was the home, and the home was Claudette. She had no life outside of this prison like complex. She had been trained by her mother in etiquette – she had been trained to be a good wife. She had been raised, from an early age, to attain a husband and manage a household. With her simplistic husband, there was no such household. He disdained social gatherings – the pomp, the circumstance – and preferred the solitude of his study. Their Westchester County home often had two residents – Claudette and her cat, Charlene.

Jack had bored her, she told him. He was boring. He was fifty, well-respected in his profession, admired by his friends – and boring. There was no escaping his boredom, she said. He was a drag, a thorn in her side. Immediately, Jack suspected another man. He imagined her on a date with some prestigious bachelor who could dote on her and lavish her with the affection she so desired. And upon imagining this, Jack realized that he did not care. He did not care if she slept with him or schemed to run away with him. And at that point, he realized that he had accepted divorce as an end to their arrangement.

Fifty, well-respected in his profession, potentially boring, and _divorced_. These thoughts ran through Jack's head as he hid in a brush in the Austrian mountains. He had field binoculars that were around his neck, weighing on him. He could feel every moment that he spent out in the wilderness.

"Look, watch that man standing by that car." A soldier next to him told him. Jack, changing his thought process, brought his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man.

"Kohler. I'll be damned." Dawson squinted and tried to make out the man's features. "We've got him."

"I'll let you do the honors, Brigadier General." The soldier who had spotted Kohler handed Jack a sniper rifle with an attached scope.

"You get the next one, Captain." Jack told the man with a reassuring voice. With the precision of a surgeon, Jack brought the rifle up to his shoulder and peered carefully through the scope. He closed his left eye and focused all of his attention onto the target – which had been focused on Kohler's right temple.

Jack waited for the perfect moment. Kohler had been talking to a man while smoking a cigarette. He and the man finished their exchange of orders, commands, and military speak, and the man he was conversing with proceeded to get into the black car. Jack waited until Kohler was alone. The car had been parked far from the Nazi base, which had been planned. Jack had worked diligently for the past two years establishing ties with organizations and individuals that had desired to fight the Nazi threat from the inside. He had one man on that military base that had infiltrated the command. That man was the man that had been speaking with Kohler. That man was the man that somehow finagled his situation so Kohler would be alone in a snowy clearing.

Jack Dawson's finger sat on the trigger. He felt no remorse. He just saw images of death camps and extermination centers, which he knew Kohler played a large part in establishing. He saw broken windows of Jewish businesses and he thought of the countless Germans and Austrians who sympathized with the plight of their Jewish countrymen. An entire demographic of these individuals had been silenced with torture, death, and imprisonment. Many had grown too scared to speak out. Others had committed themselves to non-cooperation and hiding Jews, political opponents, and Jehovah's Witnesses. Jack Dawson thought of humanity when his hand sat on that trigger. He was, to all, an angel – a divine arbiter. He stood on the brink of time, with the ability to give life and take it away. He was an angel to those who he had the ability to save – an angel of mercy. He was, in the same vein, an angel to those who he would remove from the world – an angel of death.

Kohler had turned away and had his back to Dawson.

"You have a clear shot, Brigadier General." The soldier standing next to Jack stated plainly.

"I won't shoot that man in the back. He's a coward. I won't play his game." Jack stated with an even voice.

Kohler, turning back to face the mountains, squinted in the distance, as if he had seen something. He looked confused and tired. Without hesitation, Dawson lightly pulled on the trigger. He felt no remorse or pain. He felt no guilt or apprehension. He felt a release.

Hans Kohler's head was met by a bullet, in an act of retribution. His brain exploded within his skull, instantly removing him from the world. Jack watched his body fall silently onto the snow, causing the white powder around him to grow stained with blood.

Jack Dawson was not cruel. In that moment, however, he felt that what he had done was not enough. It wouldn't bring back the people that Kohler had aided in the execution of. It wouldn't restore peace to the lives of the people that he had fatefully affected. It wouldn't close Treblinka or Dachau or Bergen Belsen. He still would not be able to rest easy.

"It's quitting time, gentlemen. Thank you for your fine work." Dawson said to the men around him, all of whom were unemotional and unaffected by the killing of Hans Kohler. "And I believe you, Captain Holzberg, owe me a cigarette." Jack said lightly as he turned to the man that had given him the rifle in the first place. The man smiled and pulled out a box of Lucky Strikes. He handed a cigarette to Jack and Jack pulled out a Zippo, ending their nicotine induced transaction. Dawson smoked his cigarette enthusiastically as his men began to pack their equipment.

"Nothing happened here, gentlemen. We're taking the road East, back to the village. If we're stopped, we're making a coal delivery. I have the paperwork. The coal is in a truck further down the mountain. It's a hike, but we'll get there before dark… and before anybody has the good sense to look up here. Let's get to it." The men heeded Dawson's words and they all began walking down the mountain. Dawson considered their conditions ideal, as the snow was falling at a rate which covered their tracks.

After a forty minute hike through snowy conditions, they arrived at their truck and began to make their way down a long road. Their destination was a small Austrian town that bore the name Salzbruck. Each of the men would rest that night, returning to their boarding houses and homes that they had lived in with their assumed identities.

Jack parked the truck outside of the small inn where he was staying. The Steiner family owned the small building – it looked idyllic, as if it had been left untouched by time. The patriarch of the family sat at the front desk, drinking hot coffee and reading the paper by candlelight.

"Ah, Herr Muller, you have returned! I'm surprised you aren't frozen." Helmuth Steiner said in German. His accent was that of an Austrian from the mountains – and Jack Dawson made certain that he would adopt Helmuth's accent when he made his way deep into Germany a month afterward. Dawson, to the Austrians he came into contact with, was Herr Wolfgang Muller, a respected man from a sleepy mountain town. Linzberg, he told questioners, was affected poorly by the Depression, and became a ghost town. Muller, in search of work, left Linzberg for Salzbruck, which was fifty miles away. And that, Muller claimed, was how he ended up living in the Steiner's inn, delivering coal throughout the town and nearby villages. This was the story that Dawson told the people he met, if they asked. He spoke perfect German, mimicking the accents of those around him.

"Well, it was cold work today, but nothing out of the ordinary." Dawson replied in German. His admission, he internally noted, was not a lie. Killing _was _cold work – and it had, indeed, been something that was not out of the ordinary. It was, simply, another day in the life.

Dawson climbed up the stairs to his room and unlocked his door. He turned on a faint light and analyzed his belongings. Satisfied that nothing had been moved, he bolted the door behind him and began to empty the contents of his coat pockets onto one of the room's tables. German, Austrian, Swiss, French, and American passports were strewn across the table. Various Reichmarks, British Pounds, Francs, Swiss Francs, and American Dollars accompanied these documents. Though it sounded like a hefty load, Dawson kept these things concisely packed in his pockets, everything concealed by layers of fabric.

After looking over his documents, Jack took a painting off of the wall near his bed. Revealing a small compartment he had carved into the wall, he put his passports and currency in the hole and put the painting back where it had been. A luger was on the nightstand, at the ready. Dawson had asked for a room on the second floor, claiming that a room too close to the street level would have been noisy. In reality, Dawson wanted time to escape. Had the Gestapo discovered him, he would have heard them storming up the stairs, which would have given him sufficient time to arm himself, grab whatever documents he could, and attempt an escape. Dawson went as far as to even park his coal truck in underneath his window.

As Dawson prepared for sleep, a search party had been sent out from the Nazi base in search of Heinz Kohler.

Kohler was punctual by nature, so it was odd for him to have not returned to the base. Much to the alarm of the search party, they found Kohler's body lying in the snow. His body was dusted with powdery flakes, but it was evident that a bullet had bore its way through his skull.

A state of emergency was subsequently declared on the base. This had been the first murder on the base in several years. What had been astonishing, however, was that the shot had clearly been fired from the mountains. Austria was the birth place of National Socialism. For the first time in many years, the men on the base felt fearful, and with good reason. For it was only a month ago that another base, deep in south Germany, reported a similar killing. The man had been facing the mountains with a bullet hole piercing his skull. Many instantly assumed that this was not a coincidence… and they were correct.

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"Damn this language!" Anya exclaimed loudly. Her instructor looked at her without amusement. They had been in lessons for three weeks, and Anya had been making clear progress with her lingual abilities. He knew that she was busy outside of her lessons, but he had little patience for complaining.

"Don't swear in front of me, unless you're swearing in German." The instructor corrected Anya. She felt angry and used – and for the first time in years, she wanted to smack James Grant across the face for subjecting her to such tedium.

Anya once again went over more complex verbs with her instructor. Anya's German lessons were focused on the way German was spoken by current German speakers. The lessons and the talks that she often sat in with Dr. Grant and Colonel Sink consumed much of her time. Her lectures with Dog and Easy Company only served to further stress her out.

Though her workload was intense, she still maintained a smile and a sense of enthusiasm while in class. Her research on the state of the war made her feel more inclined to reach out to the men that she had been teaching. She felt that her sense of stress had no place in the classroom.

The more she got involved in training for her future work in Europe, the more Anya felt detached from the civilian world around her. When Anya's only duty was to teach at Toccoa, she felt like a civilian through and through. She felt as if she had been thrust in a military world which was entirely foreign to her. This world, she assumed, would remain separate from her own civilian world. _How naïve_, she lamented, recalling how she thought this. The worlds became entwined forever when she had accepted her position as a member of the Intelligence Department. She was now under the military command, bound to that world by contract and by the exchange of intimate knowledge. Things had become different.

That German session, in May of 1943, almost drove Anya to the breaking point. After her session ended, she ran to her room holding on tight to her father's book bag which she still used. She ran up the stairs, going past Lew and Dick who had been talking in the foyer of the Officer's Residences. She took no note of them – she was only focused on getting to her room and throwing down her book bag. As she got to her room and she slammed her door, she threw off her clothes and quickly changed into her jogging outfit. She laced up her running shoes and began to stretch out.

She had taken to running up Currahee four times a week. As her German classes became more stressful, Currahee became a drug that saved her from anxiety and depression. As she walked toward the mountain she felt a sense of release and joy. As she ran up the mountain, she felt euphoria. When she conquered the mountain and stood at its peak, she felt a feeling that she likened only to an orgasm – a release of endorphins and emotions which had the ability to make her cry out. At times, her happiness brought her to tears. She returned to her room every time after she ran up and down Currahee, ending her routine with more stretches. She would always follow her physical activity with a meal and a cup of coffee.

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The next Tuesday had been rather stressful. It was now May, and Anya felt overwhelmed. She thought that September would take a while to arrive, but the past few weeks had flown by in a flurry of stress and anxiety. Anya, for a moment, longed for war. She longed to be on the move. She felt like she was standing in the middle, in a grey area, waiting for the command of those above her. She was waiting to move. For the first time, however, she felt like a piece in a chess game. Her move was being called by the players, the men above her. This was a feeling she found it difficult to get used to.

After waking up with little resolve to do anything but escape from reality, Anya walked to Colonel Sink's office.

As she entered into the office's foyer, Anya thought little of walking passed the receptionist. As she walked past the receptionist's desk, he looked up at her with a sense of disdain. He rose from his seat and attempted to stop her from passing through the waiting area.

"Ma'am, you must be announced before you barge in!" The receptionist said, annoyed that Anya had defied his authority.

"Oh God damn it! Sod off! You see me here every damned day! And damn it, it's _DOCTOR!_" Her voice rose and her face looked pale. She had reached the breaking point. The receptionist, unclear of what to do and suddenly aware that she potentially outranked him, shirked from his duty and returned to his seat as a defeated man.

Anya knocked loudly on Colonel Sink's door. She waited with little patience, hoping he would permit her to enter.

"Come in!" The voice from the office bellowed.

Anya entered in and her eyes met those of Colonel Sink's. He was a good judge of character. Part of his ability to lead, many noted, was derived from his keen eye. He was good at reading the emotions of those around him. He could predict the feelings of others by looking into their eyes and analyzing their features. From this skill, Sink learned how to tactfully handle situations and manage resources.

"Anya?" Sink asked, throwing formalities into the wind. He knew she was unwell. He also knew that she had been put in a position that she had never been in before – for the first time, she was entering into the blind oblivion of the military world. She had lost her ability to call the shots – she had lost her sense of control.

"Robert." Anya stated plainly. "I'm tired."

"I know. Sit down." Anya took a seat and looked at him. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and her skin looked devoid of the natural blush that usually had graced it. "James Grant is teaching both of your classes this week. You'll be given a week of leave from the base, Anya."

"To go where?" Anya asked, her voice filled with curiosity. "I don't have anywhere else to go, Robert. This is my life."

"And there's more to life than this. Get a room at a bed and breakfast in town. Get off the base, at least. It's not easy."

"Even if you're a Colonel?" Anya said jokingly. Sink smirked as he saw her personality shine through. He hated the thought of her being broken by her surroundings.

"Even if you're a Colonel. Especially if you're a Colonel! The tramps I have to manage!" Sink joked loudly, laughing. He picked up a cigar, lit it, and began to smoke. Anya welcomed the stench of the cigar, which reminded her of her father.

"I'm just not used to it." Anya admitted.

"And that's perfectly fine. You do a lot here. Everybody sees that."

"Except for Sobel." Anya said with a half smile. "Except for Sobel…"

"And damn, you better give a _run_ for his money!" Sink said, with emphasis on the word "run". Anya, at that moment, looked at him with surprise.

"You know about Currahee." She stated plainly.

"Of course I damn well know about Currahee! I know every God damned thing that happens on this base. You bet your bottom dollar." Anya didn't know what to say, so she laughed. She laughed loud and she laughed hard. She knew, right then, that everything was going to be okay. She saw the humor and the lightness that surrounded her. She also saw the compassion that had been around her all along.

"I'm not half bad for a city girl, you know." Anya joked.

"Well you take your week off and you put it to good use. And then you get your ass back here, next Tuesday, and show these boys how it's done. And I'll be damned if that isn't an order!" Anya had never met a man like Robert Sink. Whereas James Grant plotted and eventually made his plans known to her later on in the game, Robert Sink was painfully honest. He was forthcoming and said what needed to be said.

"And see to that done, sir." Anya replied.

"Dr. Grant will arrange for your transportation." Anya raised an eyebrow and realized that Sink had been waiting for her to need a break all along. He had expected it.

"Aren't you prepared!" Anya said. Sink, in turn, raised an eyebrow back at her. It had occurred to her that she was talking to him in a fashion that would surprise the vast majority, if not all, of the men on the base.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Anya's suitcase lay open on her bed and she had begun to pack. All she knew was that she would be spending a week at a bed and breakfast about forty minutes away from the base, in a sleepy town in the heart of the Georgian countryside. She packed very casual clothes, aiming to further remove herself from the world of work. The clothes she had decided to wear for the ride to the bed and breakfast evoked memories of past vacations in the countryside. She wore a linen dress that went to her knees. The dark cream color made her skin look vibrant as ever, all the while passing her eyes off as emeralds.

For the first time in a very long time, Anya felt liberated from her surroundings. She began to throw toiletries into her suitcase, along with lingerie and a bathrobe. In a random act of bravery, Anya decided not to back Vat 69 or her Lucky Strikes. This week, to her, would be a week of changes. She didn't want to quit smoking or drinking, and she knew that she wouldn't. She wanted to relax and avoid reminders of her work, however. Cigarettes and Vat 69 had become inextricably linked to Toccoa.

The knock on the door was a noise that Anya had anticipated. Zipping up her suitcase and checking herself over in the mirror one last time, she grabbed a light shawl and walked over to the door. Opening her door, she was in for the shock of her life.

"Ron." She stated, with wide eyes. Ron looked at her. He saw the dress she was wearing along with the slight heels she had on. To Ron, it was as if she had known what he wanted all along. In that very door jam, he had decided that today he would take action. Keeping his distance at this rate would be torturous.

"Anya." He answered, amused with the shock that was evident in her features. "Let me help you with that." Before Anya could protest, Ron picked up the suitcase and began to walk toward the stairs. Anya closed and locked the door behind her and followed him.

This time, Ron had not parked behind the Officer's Residences. This Jeep ride was not secretive in nature. There was nothing to hide. Anya, aware that James Grant was possibly the most mischievous elderly man on the face of the planet, silently thanked him for giving this chance to spend with Ron. She craved Ron. She craved his presence and his ability to make her feel better about everything.

Ron led her down the stairs and continued to confidently walk through the Officers' Residences, carrying her suitcase as if it was weightless. The large oak doors had been propped open to let the warm May zephyrs enter into the foyer. Anya followed Ron out of the doorway and welcomed the sunlight that danced across her face. Pulling a pair of sunglasses out of her purse, she shielded her sensitive eyes from the sun's rays and began to walk toward the Jeep parked in front of the building. Ron, without saying anything or making a noise, hoisted her suitcase into the back of the Jeep and opened the passenger side door. After letting Anya in, he walked around the car and sat down in the driver's seat.

"I missed you." He said those three words without emotion as he turned on the car and shifted gears. Anya looked at him and smiled. She looked, to him, like an adventurer he would read about in ancient history books as a child – wearing her dark linen dress, covering her eyes with mysterious eyeglasses, pulling herself up on top of relics and analyzing pottery shards. Her appearance amused him and lightened his heart.

Ron didn't mind her silence, as he drove through the base toward its gates. It was ten minutes before they had reached the final gates and were outside of the realm of the Airborne.

Without much thought, Anya turned to Ron and began to speak.

"I like when you drive." She said randomly. Anya, when removed from her situation, acted very much her age. She was twenty one, soon to be twenty two. She was random and spontaneous and adventurous. She was not all about books and reports and paper. She was emotional and intelligent, yet random and flirtatious.

"And I like when you're a passenger." Ron answered. "You've dressed differently today." He noted, and Anya appreciated his attention to detail.

"Yeah, you think? To think of it, I've only ever seen you in uniform. You probably look very good without a uniform." Anya said this and instantly realized its implications. She had, of course, meant that he would look good in a suit or a t-shirt and jeans or a pair of shorts. Ron knew both what she meant and how it different from what she said. He smirked.

"And Anya goes back to being bold, once more. I bet you look great without your clothes, too." Ron had taken this a step further. She chuckled and then she took off her sunglasses, as the road was heavily shaded by trees, which once again bore leaves.

"Thanks for taking me, Ron." She said, turning to him. He briefly glanced at her green eyes and was reminded once again of why she occupied his thoughts.

"Well, it's not easy to refuse Dr. James Grant…" He mentioned. "I'm glad you're taking a break." Ron said, briefly glancing at her once again. "You haven't been yourself lately."

"And you know me that well?" Anya lightly countered.

"I know all about you, Anya." Ron answered, softly. "I know who you are." The words Ron spoke resonated with Anya. Yes, he knew her. He knew everything about her. And it pleased her, it elated her, and it filled her with joy.

Silence ensued, as both reveled in each other's company. Anya observed the blooming trees and stole glances from Ron, who was focused on the road.

Moments later, Anya broke the silence.

"I don't even know where I'm going." She said, feeling silly.

"Harper's Inn. It's about thirty miles away from where we are right now… in Tatesville."

"Tatesville means nothing, I suppose. Georgia's so god damned big." Anya remarked.

"I can attest to that." Ron stated, simply.

"From Eindhoven to Manhattan to Toccoa… to Tatesville. I guess it can't all be exciting," she joked.

"I'm afraid not. From Scotland to Maine to Toccoa isn't that interesting either. I suppose I've regressed."

"Ron, you jump out of airplanes for a living. I'd hardly call that boring."

"Oh, I know it isn't boring. I was just trying to make you feel more comfortable," Ron added, with sarcasm.

"Well aren't you special." Anya replied. _You have no idea._

Their ride continued mainly in silence. Anya's stomach felt as if it was going on a roller coaster. Her close proximity to Ron made her on the brink of going crazy. Anya looked down at her feet and saw the same box that she remembered from her date. Anya knew that the box contained a gun.

"Remember when you told me you'd teach me how to fire a gun?" Anya asked. Ron pulled the car off onto the side of the road and turned off the engine. He grinned a grin that Anya had never seen on him before. Ron Speirs had a challenge in front of him that he wanted to pursue.

"I think I can recall." Ron said, as he got out of the Jeep. He put the keys in one of his pockets and walked over to the passenger side of the car and opened Anya's door. Anya understood that she was to get out of the car and followed his silent orders. After Anya had vacated the car, Ron reached down onto the Jeep's floor and retrieved the box. Opening the box, Ron procured what Anya identified as a pistol.

"I've never been this close to a gun." Anya confessed. Ron, for the first time in a very long time, felt thrilled. He was instantly turned on by what he was going to show Anya. Anya had recalled James Grant's pistol, which was something of legend. Though she had seen it from about ten feet away, she had never been any closer to a firearm.

"Yeah?" Ron asked, almost seductively.

"Mmmhmm." Anya answered. She wondered what was to happen next, aware that she had ceded control to Ron when she made her admissions about the gun.

"This is a Colt, .45 caliber pistol, Model 1911, A-1." Ron said. Anya, recalling a bit of military history, recognized some of what Ron said as familiar.

"Wasn't this type of gun used in World War I?" She asked, eager to learn more about the firearm.

"An earlier model was. That was Model 1911, not the A-1. This model is slightly improved." Ron said. "Here, hold it."

"Will it go off?" Anya asked, timid for the first time. Ron shook his head and then extended the gun to Anya's hands. She accepted the weapon and held it.

"It isn't loaded. Come on, let's go over into that brush and I'll show you how to shoot." Ron said. This was the moment Anya had been waiting for. She had never fired a gun before and the thought of Ron teaching her how to partake in what she perceived to be an overtly-masculine activity thrilled her. Still holding the gun firmly in her hands, she followed Ron off of the road and into the light woods.

Ron led Anya about three minutes away from the Jeep. Looking to his left, he could still see the Jeep in the distance.

"We'll aim at a dead tree to start." Ron said. "Come over here, stand in front of me." Ron calmly ordered Anya to move to where he wanted her. His voice was steady and seemed emotionless.

"What if I kill an animal?" Anya asked. "I've never killed anything." Anya came closer and stood in front of Ron.

"And there's a first time for everything." Ron remarked calmly.

"I've seen the men around you. They're afraid of you, Ron." Anya commented, noting that she cared little for whether or not the men actually liked Ron. She liked him, and that was enough.

"So it's noticeable, then?" Ron joked. "In war, it is better to be feared than loved." _But I have the ability to love_, thought Ron. _Maybe you just don't see it._

"How Machiavellian of you, Lieutenant." Anya commented. Ron wondered whether or not this was a sarcastic comment, typical of Anya – or a slight against him. Brushing it off, he took bullets out of his pocket.

"Anya, you need to stand closer." Ron said this and moved closer to her. Of course, she didn't need to stand closer. But, unless she was shooting at the base, she didn't know the difference. "Closer, even." Anya pushed her back against Ron's chest. Anya could feel all of Ron's warm body behind her. He felt solid and reassuring – a feeling that she had longed for. The beat of Ron's heart sped up and Anya felt it quietly vibrating through her, causing hers to do the same.

"Hold the gun out forward." Ron said. He took the gun out of her hands, still standing firmly against her. Loading a bullet into the gun, he put the gun firmly back into her hands. He then put his hands around her hands, holding her steady.

"We're aiming for that dead tree, about fifty feet away. I'll hold the gun steady. Focus on maintaining your aim while pulling the trigger." Ron leaned in closer to Anya and his lips faintly touched her ears. "You can fire now." He whispered. Shivers went down her spine and she felt both incredibly in control and incredibly out of her element – at the same time.

Ron's hands, sitting firmly on top of hers, gave her strength to pull the trigger. Squinting at the tree in front of her and making sure her aim was accurate, Anya prepared to fire a gun for the first time. Before she could give it much more thought, Anya pulled on the trigger and felt her body bounce back into Ron's. He welcomed the anticipated feeling of her body ramming up against his. He knew Anya would be unprepared for the shock that the shot would send through her body – and he reveled in the feeling of euphoria he felt as her body slammed against his, reawakening his senses.

Ron removed his hands from the gun, which Anya still managed to hold steady. Rather than pulling himself away from her, Ron brought his hands to Anya's hips and pulled her in close. Anya, savoring the moment, dropped the gun onto the forest floor.

"You missed the tree by at least five feet," Ron whispered lightly in her ear as he moved his head closer to hers. She could feel his warm breath on her skin. Anya shivered in the May warmth and closed her eyes. She was lost in the moment. This is what she had longed for – for over two months. Anya, worried before about her aim, wasn't embarrassed. She felt her heart race and she stood still. Aside from the beating of Ron's heart against her back, she heard the only the chirping of birds and the zephyrs that blew through the trees. This was solitude.

Ron began to caress her body with his hands, pulling her tight against him. Anya gasped as his hands began to wander. He rubbed on her hips, all the while holding her close. He would not leave her. She was sure of this.

Ron seductively nipped on the top of her left ear and then forcefully turned her around and faced her.

"I have you alone now." He stated, almost coldly. The way he said things turned Anya on like a switch – the way in which he tried to master his emotions, all the while wearing his feelings on his sleeve. He was not a liar.

"Hmm?" Anya enquired, looking at him curiously. She wasn't going to make any moves. She hated playing that game. She had wanted Ron to take control of her – to exert his power, his masculinity, and his strength. After months of waiting for this, she would have it no other way. Ron, barely thinking, reached down to the forest floor and picked the gun up off the ground.

"You're coming with me." He said with authority, as he grabbed one of her hands. It was as if he commanded her. Holding her hand tightly within his, he began to walk quickly back to the Jeep, pulling her along. Her stomach flipped with anticipation.

The walk to the Jeep was intense and full of sexual tension. He squeezed her hand tightly, though her response was less obvious. She grew wetter with anticipation as he pulled her toward the Jeep.

When they arrived, Ron pulled the gun box out of the truck and re-packed the firearm. Throwing it fiercely on to the automobile's floor, he allowed his thoughts to drift entirely to the woman standing next to him. He looked at her and their eyes met. Her green eyes were wide and exuded both innocence and lust. The look, combined, resulted in Ron growing harder as he looked at her. He wanted to consume her. He wanted to lick her and kiss her and look at her beneath him.

"Get in the truck." Ron ordered as he opened the Jeep's door. As she stepped in, he decided to be bold. He slapped her ass with his hand and he heard her moan. She turned around to look at him with her lips slightly parted, ask if she was begging him to take her. She sat down and waited anxiously for him to get into the Jeep. She could feel herself grow wetter with anticipation.

In a matter of seconds, he was sitting beside her revving the engine.

"I believe you have a reservation that we need to attend to." He said, as he looked at the road ahead. He gunned the car down the winding road with the intensity of a man on fire. The Georgian wind blew through Anya's long hair as the Jeep sped through the countryside.

"I need you." Anya randomly blurted out. Ron turned toward her and raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" He looked back at the road. "And what are you going to do about that?" He asked, pushing her buttons. He felt in control – he was at the wheel, in more ways than one.

Without thinking much about it, Anya decided to show him what exactly she was going to do about it. She spread her legs on her seat and ran her right hand up underneath her dress. Ron hadn't noticed her actions, until he heard her reactions. As Anya began to stroke herself, Ron heard moans escaping from her lips. Ron turned to see what she was doing that was causing such noise – and almost lost control of the Jeep. Anya moaned harder.

"In seven miles, I'll make you moan harder." He said huskily as he continued to speed through the winding road. Anya, curious, gently stuck a finger inside her wetness. She moaned harder at the realization that she was soaking wet and possibly the tightest she had ever been.

"I'm too tight… Maybe you won't fit…" Anya said flirtatiously. She had assumed the role of a young, innocent girl naively exploring herself and learning biology… and she would prove him wrong in six and a half miles. Ron felt himself grow harder as he heard her words. She was unlike any other woman he had ever met. Without even touching her, she was capable of pushing him over the edge. He wondered how long he would be able to last inside of her – she was the epitome of everything he wanted and needed.

With the ability of a rocket scientist, Ron kept one hand on the wheel while he reached over to Anya with his right hand. He grabbed at her right arm and held it firmly with his hand. He pulled her arm and she was forced to remove her hand from her activities. Within less than second, Ron released her arm and grabbed her hand, holding it tight. He brought her hand to his lips and inserted one of her wet fingers into his mouth.

He sucked on her finger, desperately hoping to taste what he could of her. He moaned as he sucked on the evidence of her wetness. With a sense of nonchalance, Ron pulled her finger out of his mouth and gave Anya back control of her hand.

"I need you…" Anya moaned loudly, as she resumed her masturbatory activities.

"You'll get all of what you need, woman." Ron continued to speed down the road. Anya continued to play with herself, reigniting feelings of wetness and arousal as she continued to stroke at her most sensitive part.

The last two miles of the ride went by quickly. Anya thought only of what she wanted Ron to do to her – and what she would do to him. Ron turned off the long road that they had been on and continued to speed down a sleepy country lane. Harper's Inn was visible in the distance – it was a medium sized house overlooking what was once a tobacco plantation. Ron continued to drive like it was what he was born to do. As he was within a short distance of the Inn, he began to slow down. In a matter of seconds, the car was stopped in front of the house.

Anya sat in her seat in shock, realizing that the vehicle had stopped. She took her hand out from under her dress and looked innocently at Ron.

"Will you be a gentleman and carry my suitcase in?" Anya asked with a polite smile. Ron looked at her incredulously. _That woman._

xxxxxxxxxxx

"Welcome to Harper's Inn," the old man said with a slow Southern drawl. He looked at the two people that stood in front of his desk. He recognized the uniform that the man was wearing – he was a Paratrooper. Old Man Harper had seen an article about Paratroopers in Time Magazine. The young man before him looked like he could have led an army all by himself. The Old Man saw a fierce fire in his eyes that could not be quelled. He then turned to the woman, who stood in front of him looking innocent. Her bright green eyes struck him as something out of the ordinary. He noted that her cheeks looked flush, as if she had just run a mile. He looked at their fingers and noted the lack of gold band. _And they're sinners to boot!_ he thought. The only thing that stopped him from telling him that he wouldn't have any of _that_ sort of thing on his property was the man's uniform – and, of course, that look in his eyes.

"It'll be room four." Anya reckoned that if a snail could speak, it would have sounded like the old man before her. She was wet, tight, and throbbing. The pain of standing still, waiting with anticipation was killing her. As the old man walked over to the key hooks against the wall, Anya squeezed Ron's hand in anticipation. Anya saw Old Man Harper finally reach the key hooks and thought to herself that if he had been walking any slower, he'd have been going backwards.

The old man slowly walked back from the wall and handed them the key to the room. As soon as he handed out the key, Ron grabbed it fiercely. Anya gave the man her fakest, widest smile and the two rushed to room four. Ron fumbled with the key and the keyhole on the door as Anya stood next to him, grabbing at his waist.

"Let me get in the damn room first!" Ron moaned, as Anya made further attempts to distract him. She played with the zipper and button on his pants, making him moan. Ron finally opened the door and pulled Anya into the room. Slamming the door behind them, Ron took this opportunity to push Anya up against the wall next to the door.

"You're mine now." Ron stated simply. He looked into her eyes and analyzed the figure he had in front him. She wouldn't turn away from him this time. There was no Toccoa. There was no Airborne or chain of command. There was Ron, Anya, that room, and the bed inside of it. Anya's eyes widened as Ron kept looking at her intensely. His studious gaze would have scared other people, easily intimidated by Ron's confidence and strength of will. Anya saw through this.

Ron softly place one of his hands on Anya's waist while pressing the other hand against the wall. Anya took in his size – he stood before her, looming over her.

"I really like you Ron." Anya said randomly. "Don't fuck me over." For the first time since they entered the Inn, innocence broke out in unwavering rays. Sincerity and emotion bled through. Ron was taken aback by Anya's words. He was elated, confused, and intrigued. He was invigorated, surprised, and in awe of the woman before him. _Does she really think I'd toss her out, like an old box of cigarettes?_ Ron thought. Did he really evoke those feelings within her? Was she scared of him?

Unaware of what to say – and perhaps aware that no words could properly follow Anya's statements – Ron continued his course of action. He smiled softly at her, which she accepted as an affirmation of his dedication to her. Anya's lips were soft and wet, standing out to him as if they had been stung by bees. He could not resist the temptation and he leaned in and softly kissed her. He could hear her lightly moan as their lips met, which made him melt inside. It was the first time he met a woman who could produce those feelings. It was at that moment when he realized this. The acknowledgement sent shockwaves through his very being.

Ron could feel Anya's tongue faintly play against his lips. Accepting her request, he parted his lips and permitted her entry. Their kiss started out soft but quickly grew intense as Ron could not restrain himself from pressing forward. He could feel himself rock solid within his uniform. With urgency, he pressed his body against Anya's.

She gasped with pleasure as she felt his hardness against her. She could feel thrusts of blood rushing to her clitoris, filling her with sensations of lust and desire. She needed him. She needed him here and now.

"Ron…" she moaned, begging him to take her. "Please..." As Ron heard her, Anya could see a devilish grin appear on his face. "I need you…" Ron sighed as he could no longer restrain himself.

"Anya Metternich, stand in front of the bed." She looked at him with a fire in her eyes that he had never seen before. She answered his command and walked toward the bed, standing in front of it and facing him. He followed her and stood in front of her. "Take off your dress." She cocked an eyebrow at him and gave him a smirk. "Take off your dress or I'm going to rip it off." Anya was so wet at this point that she, without much thought, began to strip off her clothes. Her underwear had been soaked through. Ron took her in and saw that she was wearing black lace panties and a lace bra. He noticed that her breasts were larger than he had noticed. His eyes ran over her body as if he was planning his next method of attack.

"You look surprised, Lieutenant…" The way she said Lieutenant nearly pushed him over the edge. She said it flirtatiously, as if to rub it in that he had a higher rank which he had worked so hard for. The way she said it made him feel like he was in the ultimate position of control, which he got off on. Anya had not ceded power to Ron, however. She could bring him down onto his knees and she knew this.

Ron, never at a loss for words, officially had nothing to say. He was still fully dressed in his uniform, looking stoic and put together.

"You seem to be wearing so much more clothing than I am…" She remarked. "You should do something about it." Ron didn't hesitate. He began to unbutton his shirt, carefully undoing each button and taking in the way she looked at him. Anya saw his chiseled chest, the evidence of hard work and training.

"You're giving the orders now?" Ron joked. He began to take his belt off and Anya came closer to him and stopped him. She took up his work and began undoing his belt. She slowly moved to the button on his trousers and calmly teased him, slowly unbuttoning the pants. She pulled the zipper down and looked up at him.

"You could say that." She answered with a smirk. Ron was taken aback. No woman, before, had ever been so bold. No woman had ever had the courage and the confidence to make moves like Anya had done. As Ron took in the sight before him, Anya began to lower her body and eventually kneeled on the floor. She pulled his trousers down and saw his boxers. "Such a useless waste of fabric, don't you think?" she commented nonchalantly. "No bother." She said this as she pulled the boxers down.

Anya, for the first time in a long time, had been impressed. She looked at Ron's large hard cock and the sight of it made her clit throb with intensity that she had never felt before. She took one of her hands and spit into, slathering the mess all over his hardness. Ron began to moan. He was surprised at her bold move to arouse him. As his cock was wet enough, Anya began to kiss it with her lips, licking around the tip and eventually running her tongue up and down his shaft.

"You need to get on the bed," he moaned. "Anya…" he moaned again, as she took him fully in her mouth. It had been no easy feat for her, as she found it difficult to accommodate his largeness. Ignoring his pleas, she continued to tease his cock with her mouth, using her tongue, lips, and saliva to bring him to the edge. She continued sliding his cock in and out of her mouth. Most women hated this more than anything in the world. To be sucking on Ron and pleasuring him in such a way that nobody else had ever done thrilled her and made her feel like she was on fire. She felt like the most powerful woman in the world.

"Get up!" Ron ordered. Without giving Anya time to register what he was about to do next, he pulled her toward him and fiddled with the straps on her bra. Freeing her breasts, he played with them and began to run his hands over her body. He felt her nipples perk up at the cool air that had hit them. With a finger and a thumb, he pinched one of them with intensity, making Anya shudder. As he used one hand on her breasts, he used his other hand to take off her lace panties. He felt that they were wet to the touch. After he had her standing before him naked, he fully took in the woman that was standing before him.

He looked down at her wetness and noticed that she was barely hairy – she had little more than a strip of hair directing his eyes downwards to the area which he wanted so desperately to enter. She was so sensuous – standing there before him – she was different, with her body appearance, her lack of hair, her large breasts, and her long hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Her pale white skin was a stark contrast to his rugged tanned skin which had been hardened by training and labor. Her green eyes met his and as he analyzed her, he saw lust and desire.

He pulled her in close to him and he began to kiss on her neck, making her moan and squirm in front of him. His cock was placed against her stomach and she was overwhelmed by the hardness that she felt up against her. Moving from her neck to her lips, Ron began to roughly kiss her. He nipped on her bottom lip and she roughly returned the favor, sending shockwaves through his system. He leaned in and pulled her toward the bed. They fell on top of each other onto the bed. The antique blue satin sheets hit their bodies and made them feel more naked than they had ever felt before.

Ron assumed a position of dominance and looked at the woman that was under him. She looked up at him, almost begging him to continue, desperate for the release that would soon follow. He gave her a smile as he brought his hand down to her pussy and began stroking her clit. She was incredibly wet, which encouraged him.

"Well, you've been busy," he said. She moaned loudly as he began to quickly rub on her clit. The intensity of the feeling sent vibrations through her body. She could feel her body going both cold and hot at the same time, with shockwaves running through her system. Her toes began to curl and she arched her back.

"Ron… go faster…" she moaned loudly. Ron moaned in response as he began to stroke her with an even faster speed. Her moans grew louder and louder as he progressed. She had been touching his shoulder with her hand when he had started – and at this point, her fingernails were digging into his skin. She let the emotions and feelings running through her body take her over. She became lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

"Come for me." He said. It sounded more like an order than anything else. With a few final rough strokes, he could feel her nails dig further into his shoulder. Her moan was louder than he had anticipated.

"Oh my God…. Fuck…" he heard her say over and over as she continued to dig into his shoulder. "Oh shit…" He had never made a woman orgasm like he had made her orgasm. After she felt her release, she grew quiet and began to devise her next plan of action.

"Kiss it." Ron stated, before he even gave her a chance to make any decisions. "Do it." The commands turned her on beyond belief. She rose up and then turned her head toward Ron's hard cock. She spat on it and began to take his hardness entirely into her mouth, making him moan. "You're perfect." He said plainly, in between his moans. She wondered if he would have said that had the circumstances been different. She continued to force his cock into her mouth all the while using her tongue to roll over it. "Anya…" he said softly, as she continued to pleasure him. The way he said her name drove her crazy. No one said it like he did.

Without warning, he pulled her up and looked into her eyes with the most intensity she had ever seen.

"I… won't last if you keep doing that…" he began to say as he looked at her intensely. His dark brown eyes looked like impenetrable fortresses. In that moment she saw the world in its entirety. There was no war. There was no duty. Everything was going to be alright.

Her eyes widened as she saw him try to tame himself. He was like a beast on the prowl, on the hunt, in desperate need of his prey. And for the first time in a damn long time, his prey stood before him waiting, wanting, needing. He took her lips into his and began to slowly and passionately kiss her, accepting the warmth of her mouth and the heat he could feel radiating from her. He moved to her neck and he trailed kisses against her soft skin. She could feel his hands protectively on her waist, holding her close.

Without any warrant, they began to fall back onto the bed that stood behind Anya. In a matter of seconds, Ron was on top of Anya, using only his arm strength to lift his body off of hers.

"It took too long to get you here… like this… Ms. Metternich." He stated with a smirk on his lips.

"And I bet you knew it would happen all along, Mr. Speirs." Anya retorted, though she was in a submissive position. Ron chuckled but then quickly closed the gap between their bodies. He pulled her closer to him and put his lips toward her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

"Of course I did." He said softly with a low growl. Anya could feel herself getting tight and wet again, recovering from her previous orgasm. His presence so close to her, on top of her, begging for her was enough to send her over the edge. Ron let out a sigh of satisfaction as he began to rub his cock on her most sensitive part. Anya exuded a moan and Ron took this as his cue to finally do what he had wanted to do since the moment he first laid eyes on her.

With the most careful sense of urgency, he pushed himself into her, gasping at her tightness and wetness. She moaned and panted as he did this, aware for the first time, perhaps, of how badly her body needed him. They both knew that they would not last long in this state – they had waited for this moment for far too long.

He wanted her underneath him the entire time – he wanted to see her squirm and look at her large breasts and watch beads of sweat fall off of her forehead and moisten her long hair. He wanted to see everything and feel everything and he wanted it to all unfold before him. He continued to slowly thrust into her, getting off on her low moans.

She had worried that her tightness might not be able to accommodate his largeness. This was not the case, much to her delight. As Ron began to feel her tighten even more, he sped up his thrusts and could barely contain himself. He brought one hand off of the mattress and onto her breasts, squishing them and taking in the woman that lay before him.

Her moaning grew louder and he couldn't help himself – he began to speed up even more, thrusting into her harder and harder, all the while groping on her soft body. He wanted her to come again before he did. He wanted to hear her scream his name once more – he wanted that above all. He pulled himself up slightly and adjusted the angle of his thrusts, hoping that he'd be able to push her over the edge.

She felt as if she was high, on the air, separate from the world around her. The feeling caused her to curl her legs around his, tangling the pair as she moaned louder and louder. Ron saw her eyes close and her back begin to arch. He could feel the sharp scratch of her nails against his muscular arms, begging him to continue and push her over the edge. With little extra effort, she began to dig her nails further into his skin.

He moved faster and harder, with the precision of a surgeon, begging her for a release. He wouldn't be able to last much longer afterwards – he was sure of this.

"Ron…" he could hear her moan, her voice growing with intensity and fervor. "Please…" he heard her beg, as he began to thrust harder. "Oh my God… Ron… Oh my God…" she moaned over and over, louder and louder, until her words became intelligible and he felt her grip against his muscles with an intense display of strength.

He couldn't wait any longer. He had waited too long. It had been months. As he heard her moan and felt her grab onto him, he let go of his body and let his desire take control. In a matter of seconds he could hear himself exude a loud mixture of steamy moans and sighs as he collapsed on top of her and felt a wave or bliss and relief wash over him.

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The alarm bell brought Jack Dawson back to reality as he carefully removed himself from his dream. He had been cheating lately, at night – thinking thoughts in hopes of guiding his dreams and molding them into what he wanted them to be. He could only ever remember his dreams for the first few moments after he woke up. After that window of time, he forgot everything. His guidance couldn't keep that woman from disturbing his sleep. Was it Claudette? Or was it that German woman he had tried to seduce shortly afterward in that smoky bar in Berlin? Or was it that woman who had walked by in the red dress, slinking past him with her gin and tonic in one hand, her beaded clutch bag in the other, with that scandalous fur stole adorning her bare shoulders… It wasn't worth remembering. _None of you are worth remembering_, he mused. He reached for the luger that stood authoritatively on his nightstand, reminding him of his constant duty. None of them were worth remembering.

After quickly washing up, shaving, and dressing warmly, Jack instinctively put his luger, passports, and money, in the various pockets in his coat. After glancing over his room and making sure everything was in order, he opened the door and began his day, locking the door behind him. Slipping out of the quiet Inn, he stepped out onto the winding streets of the cold, mountain village of Salzbruck.

And so began another day in the life.

**Author's Note/Why Do I Even Care To Write This? (Wait, it's Cause I'm a Geek): **Bleh, let's just assume they had safe sex. I did some research on birth control in the 1940s and I wasn't really in the mood to get into a bunch of mumbo-jumbo that would require footnotes and citations. But, Anya's a smart broad, so we'll give her the benefit of the doubt. And deep down, Ron is all about keeping women safe and respecting women, so I'm sure he would have done the same. Right? Right? Yeah, I'm right.


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Happy holidays, all. I hope you enjoy this chapter and where this story is going.

In any instance, excuse any minor grammatical errors.

Please review and leave feedback. Loooove it.

**Chapter 13**

Anya sat at her desk waiting for her class to come into the lecture hall. Staring down at her date book, she tapped the pages absentmindedly with a pen. It was June 15, 1943.

"1943, how you came upon me so unexpectedly…" Anya mused aloud. It was her birthday and she had reached the age of twenty two. Ten years ago, would she have ever imagined herself here? _Probably!_ She thought. When she was a child, she was a girl warrior, climbing trees and lusting after mountains. She read books about red Indians and railways and the first explorers that headed West. This, in essence, was no different – this entering of uncharted waters, tossing caution into the wind all the while hoping for the best.

The men began to enter the lecture hall, some joking and some silent. Anya had a few materials in front of her – _Mein Kampf_, lecture notes, a fountain pen, and a small journal. Dr. Grant had taught her to always keep a journal – _'Ideas happen everywhere!'_ she heard swimming through her mind.

She waited as the lecture hall filled up. Lewis Nixon strode into the room followed shortly behind by Dick Winters. Anya looked at Lew with a puzzled smile, wondering what put such a spring in his step. It didn't take her long to get an answer, as Lew walked right up to her desk and leaned down to talk to her.

"Because I love you _so_ much, I'm giving you fair warning. Sobel is one angry son of a bitch right how. If he raises his hand, don't even call on him." Lew said with a raised eyebrow.

"He's an angry son of the bitch every damned day, Nix. Nothing new, right?" Anya answered.

"Oh, but he's an angry son of a bitch who is hell bent on vengeance." Lew stated plainly. Anya looked at him in disbelief.

"And I'm assuming that there is some reason, perhaps even sitting in this lecture hall, as to why he's so bent out of shape…" Anya started.

"You better fucking believe it, Metternich. Yesterday afternoon we were all out in the woods… practicing war, if you will… Sobel got us so god damned lost – I mean, the bastard can't read a fucking map. To make a long story short, some of the guys from Easy went to Sink this morning to request that they change companies… You know, refusing to serve under Sobel in combat – and with good reason, I mean, to get me to follow him under enemy fire would require a huge flask of Vat, if you know what I mean…"

"Are you serious?" Anya cut Lew off. "You can't be serious." Anya looked behind Lew and saw Sobel walk angrily into the lecture hall, glaring at her. He eyed Nixon with contempt and his face was red. "Oh my god… you're serious…" Anya corrected herself.

"So, that all being said, you've been warned. Don't go looking for any trouble, Patton." Nixon said with a wink before he walked to a seat next to Dick. _Jesus, I don't believe in you… but give me strength to get through this lecture_… Anya said in her head. _Give me the strength not to verbally strangle the bastard in front of me._

The lecture hall had filled up as Anya was talking to Nixon. Ron sat three rows back, in his usual spot with the rest of Dog Company. He hated when Nixon got that close to Anya – it made him feel as if he actually had competition on the base.

"Alright, alright. Quit your chatter!" Anya said calmly as she sat at her desk. "Quiz results are back… and I think you'll all be pleased. You have all earned yourself a movie screening." Anya could hear George Luz say something witty to the man sitting next to him. She tried not to chuckle as she continued. "The new Hitchcock picture, Shadow of a Doubt, will be playing this Friday night on the base, for D and E Company viewing only. And, of course, myself or the good Colonel Sink if we so wish to join you all…" Anya could hear Sobel cough loudly, indicating his displeasure with her rewarding the men that he sat with. "And, on _that note_," Anya said as she glared at Sobel, "Let's get down to business."

The men opened their notebooks and got themselves ready for note taking. Nobody was sure what this lecture would be about, as Anya had covered the majority of the material leading up to the outbreak of war.

"This lecture I suppose is a bit unorthodox. I will be showing you head shots of some high ranking members of the Nazi regime, while providing you with information. These men – and a few women among them – are highly wanted individuals. If any of these people are captured in war, they are to be taken alive and their presence is to be reported immediately to a superior officer. Many of these individuals are highly dangerous and conniving. They will stop at nothing to talk themselves out of a situation or place the blame on another. Furthermore, many of them may be ready to die to evade capture. Their death would only hamper the cause of the United States and its Allies. So, we begin." Anya got out large posters with the heads of various men and women who had achieved high ranks within the Nazi regime.

"I'm going to start with Himmler…" Anya started, pointing to her picture of Himmler. She went through the top ranking Nazi officials, telling the men everything she knew about them. After an hour of lecturing and answering questions, took a seat at her desk in front of the lecture hall. She saw Colonel Sink open the door to the hall and take a seat in the front row. He gave her a reassuring smile. Stopping in on the end of Anya's classes was something that Sink often did when he was making his rounds on the base.

"So… those are the big guys. That's what they do. Some of them are soldiers – like Himmler or Hess – and some of them are mere architects – Speer. Regardless of their profession, they're working for the same boss. As far as I'm concerned, if you're that high up in the ranks and you're wearing Nazi insignia on your uniform, you are willing to follow Hitler 'til the ends of the Earth. These men are dangerous and many of them, as I have explained to you, are blood thirsty. Their actions defy any conventions of war that we may adhere to." Anya took a moment to look across the men that sat before her. "There are conventions that we adhere to as Americans. These same conventions are held by the British, the Canadians, and many of our other allies. There are lines that we simply do not cross – that we cannot cross, lest we betray humanity. This is a game of kill or be killed, and therefore we must fight and if we get blood on our hands, it will be for a good reason. In war, weapons must be fired and the enemy needs to fall. That's the way it is. These men that you'll be fighting, however… their leadership knows no boundaries. I think this is the most evident in the way we treat our prisoners of war. We are compassionate, though we may hate it, towards our foes. I cannot say the same about our enemies." Anya finished with a sobered voice. She had read the reports about American pilots interned in concentration camps.

"Well put, Doctor." Sink said, and many of the men seemed more rigid upon hearing his voice. Noticing the change in the lecture hall's atmosphere, Sink added, "Men, at ease. I was just stopping by here to hear one of my favorite lecturers, and of course… to congratulate y'all on the damn fine good job y'all be doing lately. I'll be damned if this isn't the finest regiment in the Airborne!" Smiles abounded throughout the room after Sink's congratulatory remarks. Sink stood up and nodded at the men and then he took his leave.

"On that note, I suppose this is where we should end our lecture. Good day, men." Before Anya could rest easy, she saw Sobel stand up. His face was haunted with a look of purpose.

"Easy Company, attention!" The men looked like the walking dead, ready for the words that were going to come out of his mouth. "We are running CURRAHEE! In full gear!" Anya looked at Lew and shot him a sympathetic glance. In that moment, when their eyes met, Anya knew that something had to be done.

Easy ran toward their barracks to change into their full gear. Anya rose from her desk and pondered what she would do next.

"Busy afternoon?" Ron asked, standing next to her desk. He had avoided being overtly bold about seeking her out, as he didn't want to bring any unnecessary attention to them.

"Now that you mention it, yes. I have to run… I have something to attend to. Good day, Ron – we'll talk later." Anya's voice was rushed and took Ron by surprise. Usually the words they had exchanged were sweeter and full of compassion, sympathy, and interest. Anya seemed downright disinterested. Before Ron could even react, Anya grabbed her satchel and quickly walked out of the lecture hall. After she exited the building, she broke into a fast run, hoping she would get to her room in time to change into her running gear.

In a short amount of time – and perhaps as a testament to her lung power – Anya reached her room and began frantically changing into athletic clothing. She quickly kicked off her leather flats and nude stockings, opting for cotton socks and her running boots. With lightning speed, she laced up her boots. Not desiring any sort of injury, she took a quick minute to stretch out her leg muscles, preparing for the run that was ahead of her.

There would be no stopping this time around. There would be no pausing to catch any breath, there would be no enjoying Currahee's forest scenery. This was the real thing. After leaving the Officers' Residences, Anya saw Easy Company already running across the parade field, to Currahee's base. They were in full gear and looked as impressive as ever. Compared to the battle ready company that ran ahead of her, Anya looked like a novice. She felt a pang of anxiety hit her stomach as she realized that this was the point of no return. If she started running now, she would have to commit to Currahee. She would have to commit to the mountain and pledge herself to its expanse, elevation, and winding trail. She had to promise the mountain that she would offer it three miles up and three miles down.

A few men turned to look at the woman standing in shorts and a t-shirt. She was on the parade field in all of her glory, with her tightly laced boots and her hair in a long braid that fell down to the small of her back. Some of the men were from Dog Company, others were from the mess hall. Some were actually officers who lived in the same building as she. She looked to her left and saw Dr. Grant walking down a path with Sink, most likely on their way to a meeting. She made eye contact with Sink and she swore that the man had a twinkle in his eye.

The look that Sink gave her sealed the deal.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Anya said aloud, as she broke into a steady sprint. Her body picked up momentum as she rushed down the parade field. She could feel warm summer zephyrs hitting the loose strands of hair that had liberated themselves from her braid. She was motivated by time – the desire to run fast enough to meet the men that were ahead of her – and distance – the desire to close the gap that stood between her and Easy.

Ronald Speirs stood on the parade field smoking a cigarette. His eyes were focused on the flame that ran before him, hundreds of yards away. That was her mission, he realized. He saw within her a drive that he had rarely seen in the men around him. He wondered whether or not she could even run up and down the mountain in one fell swoop. He had no concept of her athletic ability or her endurance. He took a slow drag from his Lucky Strike and leaned against one of the barracks. _That woman. She's always up to something_, he thought.

In less than thirty seconds, Anya had reached the base of the mountain and began her ascent up the forested trail. She could hear Sobel yelling at the men in the distance, and she judged that they were a minute ahead of her. This was the time when Anya had to pick up the pace and close the gap of time and distance. Putting as much effort as she could into her run without growing tired, she pushed onward.

This moment, this instance, this very run – this is what she had been waiting for. Part one of her journey existed in her first liberating run up Currahee. This run, this mark of endurance and resilience – this was the final chapter. Anya ran with these ideas in her mind and in her heart. The sound of Sobel's voice grew louder.

"Grant, you're so damn slow! If this was a charge you'd be German bayonet fodder!" she heard him yell. With every word his voice grew louder. As she turned a sharp corner on the trail she saw Grant, fifty feet ahead of her, lagging behind the rest of the Company.

Anya ran faster to catch up with Grant. She let the warm Georgia air take control of her body and guide her to victory. As Grant heard light running steps behind him, he turned around. His eyes widened as he saw Anya catching up to him. She gave him the best smile she could while she was running. The sight of Anya motivated him to run faster.

Anya, finally catching up to Grant, ran beside him – not as his teacher or his superior, but as his equal, his comrade.

"You're crazy, Doctor." Grant said in between breaths. Anya looked at him as she ran and smirked slightly.

"Private, don't you dare let me beat you up this mountain." Anya said, with all of her strength. She meant every word she said. Running side by side with Grant, the two closed the gap between themselves and the rest of the Company.

A matter of feet stood between them and the tail end of Easy. Anya, without much thought, grabbed Grant's arm and pulled him onward. Pushing him into the group of men, she ran onward. Breaking herself away from Grant, she ran alongside the company

"Lew!" Anya said, as she saw the miserable man running to her left. Lew's eyes widened as he saw the woman next to him. "Race you to the top, asshole!" Anya said jokingly.

"You're a fucking angel, you know that? A fucking angel." Lew said as the two ran up the mountain together. "And you're crazy, too. Sobel is going to shit himself."

Sobel pulled his Jeep to the side of the road and looked at the men beside him. He swore he had heard chatter above the roar of his Jeep's engine. He was taken aback by the sight of Anya Metternich running next to his least favorite alcoholic, Lewis Nixon. She must have done this to show off to the men, he thought, as he saw her in her shorts and t-shirt, running alongside men in full gear.

"Metternich, you have no permission to be on this mountain!" Sobel shouted, almost knowing that his command was in vain. By shouting this, he had alerted the rest of the company to Anya's presence. Upon hearing Sobel's admission, the men turned and saw their favorite doctor running up the mountain with them. Many of the men cheered, much to Sobel's chagrin.

"I order you, Metternich, to get off this mountain!" Sobel continued. Anya, finding the strength to shout back at him, looked him straight in the eyes as she continued to run toward him.

"I felt like going for a jog, and look who I ran into! What a coincidence!" she shouted defiantly. She heard Lew snort as she said this.

"I command you to descend this mountain!" Sobel shouted, again in vain.

"I am not your charge, Mr. Sobel! If you dislike me, please take your complaints to Colonel Sink!" she shouted back, her voice loud and clear.

"Don't you dare pull rank on me!" Sobel retorted in a child-like fashion. Some of the men laughed, while others simply had amused looks. The exchange that they heard going on was almost worth the run up and down the mountain.

"I have no idea of what you're talking about!" Anya said, ending their exchange of words. With those words, Sobel pulled his Jeep off the side of the trail and continued driving toward the top of the mountain. It was almost like admitting defeat. That day in June, when he saw Anya on that mountain, was something he would never forget, until the day he died. It was that very moment when he realized that he would never be able to lead the company that ran behind him. It was at that point in time when he realized it would never be possible.

He had wanted to be Machiavellian, when he started out. He had wanted to hone the best possible group of men and outshine all the other companies. He knew that he had succeeded in these aims. He had exceeded and thrived in those regards. There was, however, no human connection between him and the men he served. The lesser officers like Winters outshone him and stole the affection of the men. How had he wronged them, he wondered, in trying to make them the best prepared company? How could they know what it was like to be him – what his personal battles were like?

Anya continued to run with everything that she had. She saw Bull Randleman, the man she remembered was from Arkansas. She made a point of remember as many names as she could from her lectures, hoping to earn the respect of the men she taught.

"Hello Mr. Randleman." She said, almost laughing as she was running. Randleman smiled as he heard her voice.

"Now this is something I never thought I'd here see." Randleman said, causing Anya to laugh even harder. "I didn't know you was a runner."

"Neither did I, Mr. Randleman, neither did I." She answered, smiling all the while. "See you at the top, Bull."

Johnny Martin had been running next to Bull. He ran up beside her.

"Doc, thanks for telling that bastard what everybody else wants to say but can't." He said, sincerity evident in his voice. "I owe you a beer and a cigarette."

"Martin, when we're not in class, you call me Anya." She said kindly, and her words were me with a smile. The men around her had heard her words and looked on, pleased with the compassion evident in Anya's presence. "And that goes for all of you. Unless we're in class, you call me Anya."

To them, she was unlike any of the other doctors they had met. Many lived for the prestige that was associated with the title, always requiring that they be addressed in a particular fashion. Anya had been like that when she was twenty, when she was working at the Institute and she had her diploma proudly displayed on her office wall. Things had changed, however, when she began to merge her life and her work. She learned that the prestige associated with her educational rank was not in the title that she had acquired, but the people that she had shared her time with. Her work – and the evidence of it – was all around her, running up the mountain, in order to meet the same goal that she was striving for. She was, at that moment, one of them.

"Hey doc!" she heard a man with an accent from Philadelphia shout out. _Guarnere, the one and only_, she mused to herself. She knew that accent anywhere.

"If it isn't Bill Guarnere!" she shouted back, causing a few of the men to laugh.

"Hey Gonnhorea, I think she likes you!" George Luz said, ribbing Guarnere.

"Well then that makes one of us, asshole!" Bill retorted back.

"Boys, save the fight for the Germans, okay?" Anya joked, causing some of the men to laugh. She heard Dick Winters, in particular, laugh heartily. "I like all of you, some more equally than others." She said as she laughed at her silly joke.

For the first time, she felt as if she was among friends. She had Ron, Lew, James Grant, and Robert Sink, but other than that, she felt rather empty.

"You know, it's her birthday today!" said Lew loudly, his voice echoing over the men.

George Luz, with little prompting, began to sing Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs. The men around him took the cue and joined in, serenading their female comrade. Anya blushed and continued to run hard, this time running next to Lew again.

"You're incorrigible." Anya stated simply.

"You've called me that a few times." Lew remarked, causing Anya to chuckle. "And you're insane, just so you know. Sobel is going to try his hardest now to make a fool of you everywhere he goes."

"Let him try, Nix. He certainly failed to do so today."

"You got that right, toots."

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It had never occurred to Jack Dawson that he may have overstayed his welcome in Salzbruck. He had continued working behind the guise of Wolfgang Muller – appearing to deliver coal, all the while executing high ranking members of the Nazi command in the Austrian mountains with his comrades. He knew that the previous execution right out of the base had aroused suspicion, for it had occurred far too close to the last execution he pursued in Southern Germany. As a heavier Gestapo presence began to fill Salzbruck and its surrounding areas, Dawson began to acknowledge that he should have changed his methods and improved his skills. He thought of a car bomb or a grenade, or even an execution location farther from the base.

His intention, of course, was to kill the man quick and easy without harming his inside guy. The sight of tall black boots and crisp looking uniforms adorned with red and white armbands made him wonder as to whether or not he was working hard enough to keep himself under the radar.

He sat in a small sleepy café, sipping on a black coffee as he looked through the window onto the street. Two Gestapo officers were talking to a few townspeople. _Gathering a case against me_, Jack instantly thought. Before he could think much else, an officer entered into the café and looked over the customers. There was an older man there, reading a paper and nursing a drink.

The officer wasted no time.

"On behalf of the government, any suspicious activity must be reported to the authorities, such as myself, in town. If you suspect someone of sabotage, treason, or otherwise unlawful activities, it is your duty as German to report them. If it is discovered that you are harboring a criminal, you will face the same fate of the one which you are protecting. That is all." He clicked his boots and left the café faster than he had come in.

Jack Dawson knew it was time. He _had_ to move. He had no other choice. There had been a lead, somehow, that connected the murder to the town. He knew it. Lighting a cigarette, he began to plan his next course of action. He had told the men to leave if they had any inkling that their position was being compromised. He thought of the men in his team -- Anderson, Halzburg, Shephard… and Metternich. His thoughts drifted to William Metternich, the twenty eight year old from Manhattan. Dawson hadn't told Anya that her brother had been serving under his command – he thought it best that she didn't know. She had top secret security clearance, working with the Institute. He knew she could have been trusted with the information, but he didn't trust himself. He had seen men die before, in front of him – and it made him feel helplessly human. No, he thought, it was best that he hadn't told Anya.

And if Will died? Anya most certainly would have known. And perhaps she would never have forgiven him. Dawson knew he was liable to receive a slap in the face for his secrecy. He was damned if he told her, as he felt that he could live with that responsibility. He was damned if he did not tell her, because he knew that if the worst happened, she would eventually find out all of the details. She was a researcher. She knew how to get to the bottom of mysteries.

He had never been one to pray, but he sincerely hoped that Metternich would get the tip and leave. Dawson had devised a plan: each man was to head to west to Switzerland.

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Anya sat at her desk in her bedroom, looking over the field that stood out before her. The end of August proved beautiful and warm, much warmer than she had been used to in Manhattan. She held a novel in her lap – _Anna Karenina_ – which she always made a point to read and re-read.

The door knocked and she called out, "Who is it?" not turning away from her window.

"A friend." She knew that voice. He had never visited her room since that day he brought her suitcases up to her, however – that day when she first moved to Toccoa. Anya and Ron had grown close since that day at Harper's Inn. They stole meetings with each other whenever they could. They spoke of their pasts – where they came from, their families; what they thought would happen with the war – both thought it would be a long one; and what they wanted from the future – both were semi-sure, unwilling to confess their feelings to each other. They had not had sex since that day at Harper's Inn – it had been too risky – there had been no way to finagle such privacy with the impending deployment increasing workloads.

"Enter." She said, trying to hide her surprise. She swiveled in her chair and her eyes met Ron. He was in his formal uniform, bloused trousers and all.

"Your room hasn't changed much," he remarked. "Still looks the same. A bit cleaner, though."

"Yeah, I clean up well." She joked.

"I know." Ron answered, not referring to her room.

"So, close the door. Have a seat." She pulled a cigarette from its box and lit it. "And do enlighten me as to why you're making house calls now." Anya said this jokingly.

Ron strode over to her and gave her a strong a fierce gaze.

"The regiment is moving out soon." He stated plainly.

"I know, Ron. I've known for a while."

"How long did you know about it?" He asked, not caring whether or not she answered.

"Months." Anya said this truthfully. "Cigarette?"

"A woman who knows my vices." Ron stated after he nodded his head and accepted the cigarette. He lit it with his Zippo and began to smoke it casually as he looked at the woman who sat across the desk from him.

"Among other things," she joked.

"That would be a fair assessment." Ron paused, taking in the beauty that was before him. "What are you going to do when the regiment moves out?"

"I can't tell you." She said plainly. Ron's eyes widened at her admission. It meant only thing – she was coming with them. If she was going to stay home, she could have told him that. As Anya saw his eyes widen, she knew that she had given herself up.

"You might as well come out with it, woman. Your cover's blown." He said, practically emotionless.

"I'm sorry, Ron. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hide things from you…" she started.

"I know, Anya. I know what this job is like, okay? I'm not a fucking general, but I'm al lieutenant. I know that there are secrets you have to keep and that there's a chain of command and duty that must be fulfilled. Don't lecture me on that. I know. I know that just like you do."

"I'm not trying to play you for a fool, Ron! I'm not!"

"I know you aren't, damn it. But I also know the regiment's going to England. Uppottery, England. You aren't the only one higher up in the chain." After he said this he paused and took a drag from his cigarette. "What are you doing when the regiment leaves, Anya? I need to know." Knowing that her secret would be safe with the man in front her, she did something that she would never have done – she caved.

"Following the regiment, Ron." He kicked her desk with anger as she affirmed his worst fears. "I'm sorry! Okay, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for it to happen like that! I didn't ask for it!"

"You could have sat this one out! You're safe working from New York or Washington! England?! They're getting bombed daily! And what happens when the regiment goes on to Europe?! Are you going to get thrown out of a plane and shot at too?" His clean shaven face accentuated his sharp features.

Anya felt her eye widen and tear up. She had grown overly sensitive as September grew nearer and nearer. She had often weighed whether or not going would be a good or bad idea – whether or not it would be safe or dangerous or even worse – and she wrangled and wrestled with these thoughts daily.

"What the hell can I give you if you're dead?!" he exclaimed, driving the dagger further into her. "Are you crazy? People are getting killed, Anya!" Anya's eyes continued to water, and a lone tear escaped her right eye.

Seeing her on the verge of a breakdown, Ron backed down. He walked over to her bed and sat on it, looking at her with regret in his eyes.

"Come here, babe." He said softly. For the first time, it wasn't an order. It was a request – and she had a choice to deny him. Rather than deny him, however, she walked over to him and sat next to him. "I'm sorry."

Many of the men that Ron served with would have been surprised to hear him apologize. They had never taken him as the apologizing type.

"Sink asked me and Grant didn't really give me a choice. What the hell am I supposed to do here, Ron? Everybody's going to be gone." She said plainly. "I'm going. I'm not going to stay behind."

"I always knew I'd meet someone as stubborn as myself…" he joked.

"I'm working in Intelligence." She said randomly.

"Oh? Well as long as some asshole doesn't get the smart idea to give you a luger and send you off into the Belgian forest, that's a bit better…" he joked with a heavy heart.

"You hoped things would be different." She stated quietly. "I'm not all that excited about you jumping into a warzone, either."

"I'm just…"

"Used to getting what you want." Anya smiled as she said this.

"You can stay with my family in Scotland after the regiment leaves England." He started to come up with random plans in hopes of pulling her away from European ambitions.

"I'm following the regiment, working wherever Colonel Sink is." _Ron, there is no other way._ "You haven't even told me about what you'd want out of the future."

"You know I'm not a sentimental man." Anya laughed loud when she heard this.

"It doesn't hurt once in a while, you know? It's human. Don't cheat your humanity. Please." Ron's heart sank as he heard those words. Did she think he was a monster, incapable of feeling?

"I wish you knew what you did to me, Anya. I can't begin to explain." Ron reasoned.

"Try me." She looked at him with fierce green eyes.

"I…" He took her hand as he held her. "I love you." Anya smiled.

"I know you do, Ron. I love you too." He felt as if he could grow wings and fly. He had held her heart in his hands for so very long – but now he had a verbal affirmation of this.

"You want a lot of things, Ron, I know. I want a lot of things. Hell, if I could have a Lucite cigarette holder to stop me from getting nicotine scented fingernails, that would be great too. But we can't always get what we want." Ron chuckled lightly.

"You have such a way with words." He said sarcastically. "I think you should kiss me."

"Oh, and the brave lieutenant doesn't like making the first move anymore?"

"I like it when you're bold. Kiss me."

The late afternoon faded into the Georgian evening and the sun began to set. Ron had not intended to spend the night – but he had longed to kiss her skin and lose himself in her curves and long hair. He had her – but he didn't want to lose her.

Xxxxxxxxxx

"Metternich, move your ass." Dawson said, pleadingly. Will was slumped up on a tree less than five kilometers from the Swiss border. When he showed up at Steiner's Inn to meet Dawson, Dawson was taken by surprise. The two were not to be seen in public – suspicion could not be aroused.

Will was desperate, however. Jack remembered how Will had a fear in his eyes that he had never seen before. _They opened fire on the village, Jack. _ Jack didn't want to believe it – but then again, he had seen pictures of Bergen Belsen. _I jumped out of a two story building and landed on the ankle. It's only a sprain, though._ Jack, with a heavy heart, had told Will the roads would be heavily guarded – they would have to go on foot. _Brigadier General, leave me. I'll figure something out. I'll get to a town not far from here – _Jack told him to "shut the fuck up". He had slapped him across the face. He had never left a man behind – and he wouldn't start that practice now. Not here, not in this godforsaken warzone. _But we have eighty kilometers to cross, Dawson. _Jack wouldn't have any of it.

Dawson had hoped that the others would get to Switzerland on their own – for he could not waste any emotion worrying about them. He had not intended to be in this situation. Will's presence made him realize that this situation was all too real. Behind enemy lines, few rations, barely any water. The snow had long since melted – they were not far up in the mountains anymore – and there would be no chance of finding any ice to melt in one's mouth for water.

"Jack, it's no fucking use." Will said plainly. He was tired. His ankle was black and blue. He felt as if the bone was about to poke through, causing a bloody mess.

"If I have to carry you, I will. I'll have none of this _leave me behind_ bullshit. Save that for the nursery. We're getting the fuck out of Dodge, Metternich. You got that? Now, you have two options, and two options only: you get up yourself and walk with me, because I know you can't run. And that's fine. Or you let me pick you up, and I'll fucking tow you all the way across that god damned border. Nothing less."

"You're a real gem, you know that?" Will said sarcastically as he painfully rose from the forest floor.

"And you have your sister's charm, you know that?" Jack retorted, opening his canteen and offering Will some water. "Have a tablespoon's worth. We have five kilometers. We'll make it."

"The SS have Jeeps, Jack."

"And we're not on the road, Metternich."

"The SS have dogs."

"And I have a gun and two fine ass German passports. Let's move."

Silence ensued and the two walked together through the forest. Night was about to fall, and Jack figured it would be the best time to finish their arduous journey to the Swiss border. They had five kilometers – a little more than three miles – of heavily forested terrain to cover.

Metternich broke the silence and looked at the man who was walking next to him. Jack was older, with slightly graying hair and an aristocratic build. Metternich was young, blonde, and slightly taller than Jack. He had fiery green eyes and high cheek bones. His face was grazed with stubble, indicative of a hasty retreat with no time to shave.

"Thanks Jack." Will said calmly.

"You did it yourself." Jack answered honestly.

"How do you get through it all?" Will asked in earnest.

"I can't explain it." Jack paused, but then continued. "I remember my father gave me a poem once, when I graduated the military academy. One of the lines always stuck with me, no matter where I was. _Even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea._"

"And that gets you through?" Will said with a sense of surprise.

"And that gets me through. Every time."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Son of a fucking bitch! I want his scalp!" The SS officer shouted to the men in his charge. "I want that cunt's fucking scalp!"

"Sir, shall we punish the old man Steiner?" One of the blood hungry soldiers looked up to his superior. Some of the other men had joined the SS specifically so they got larger salaries and longer periods of leave. Many of those men who joined for those reasons had growing families at home that needed to get by. The war did crazy things, however. The deportations made monsters of men.

But then there were those who had been blood hungry from the start. Those who enjoyed the sound of their bayonet going through a man's chest – and those who much preferred using a bayonet, because a bullet to the head was too merciful.

"_Nein_, that old fool was duped like all the others. Don't waste your time." The officer remarked, trying to stay as calm as he could given the circumstances.

"Shall we search the room again – the one in that inn?" Another soldier remarked.

"We already searched it top to bottom, inside and out – he's a professional." One of the lesser ranking officers commented.

"You fools! He's gone now! He's left! He's evaded us!" the officer said furiously, thirsty for blood. "That piece of shit is gone! WE LET HIM GO! He was here all along! I want to fucking kill him myself!"

"He's probably on his way to Switzerland. Reports say an injured man was with him when he left. If that is true, they can't be in Switzerland by now. He's a professional; he knows to avoid the roads. There are checkpoints everywhere. Your escapees? They're in the forest. Check the trees." One of the smarter men said.

"Klimpt, you're promoted. Who is your next superior officer?" The lead officer said.

"Miller."

"Miller? You've been demoted. Klimpt has your job." The men around him looked shocked. "Gentlemen, I mean business. Find this man. And if you don't find him, find a lead. We need to break ground." The officer looked around the room again and saw one man smoking a cigarette. "So, you think you're on break now? You've just lost your box of cigarettes. Open it up – you get to share now!"

The guy shrugged his shoulders. They had not been bought or in his ration pack – they had been "finders keepers". No loss to him.

The officer saw the man retrieve the box from his uniform and when he saw the words on the box his eyes widened. It has been there all along. That stupid escapee. It had been under their noses all along.

He walked over to the smoking man and seized the box. Emptying the cigarettes onto a table next to him, he held the box up in the air.

"Lucky Strike. An American spy." _Lucky _for the SS. A _strike_ for Jack Dawson.

xxxxxxxxxx

Anya was surprised when she woke up. She was alone – a chilling feeling, after a night of tenderness. Morning rays broke through her window and danced on the bare wood floor. Pulling the covers around her, Anya sat up in her bed and looked out the window. The day looked warm.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews. I'm glad you like the story, it means a lot. It's also really cool to see that people have added this as a "favorite" or on "story alert". Very cool, very flattering.

Random: Just saw that in previous chapters I mention Uppottery, which is incorrect. It's supposed to be Aldbourne. Ooooops. I guess I'll be going back and editing the crap out of this when it's all said and done.

Oh, and, don't be lazy! Review! I see you all hitting that Story Alert button. Don't be shy, ladies and gentlemen!

On a side note, I wonder if I have any gentlemen readers…

**Chapter 14**

_September 2, 1943._

"Do you even like England?" Anya inquired as she sat across from Nix on the train. Dick Winters sat next to her, keenly turning his attention to Nixon.

"You better find out if they're Vat 69 there, first." Dick joked. Anya laughed heartily.

"That reminds me – you owe me one for all of those drinks I shared with you back at Toccoa! Gimme a swig out of your flask!" Anya roared with laughter as she watched the smoke rise from her cigarette.

"Easy there, champ, I wouldn't want your lieutenant after my ass for getting _that_ intimate with you." Nix said sarcastically as he extended his precious flask in Anya's direction. Dick raised an eyebrow. Anya, in turn, shot Nixon a death glare.

"Watch it Lewis, or I'm going to put you on a train back to Nixon, New Jersey." She said sarcastically as she enjoyed her Lucky Strike. "Though I can't say that they're missing much, if you know what I mean." Dick chuckled as Anya held her own against Nixon.

"So is that going to be the nature of this train ride? Make fun of Lewis Nixon, of the well-respected Nixon family – of _Nixon_, New Jersey? Hell, it almost has its own New Jersey Transit stop, right next to Edison!" He said putting on a fake air of superiority.

"Just so you know, we aren't the type of social circle that very much gives a damn." Anya replied, meeting Nixon's face with a smile.

Anya leaned on Nixon's shoulder and looked out the train's window. She saw North Carolina pass by her in green blurs – farms, lakes, and hills. She had never seen this part of the United States, which she found to be regrettable. The beauty enchanted her and she made a pact with herself – on that train ride, after her conversation with Dick and Lew – that she would return to this place and drive through it, taking it in, in all of its natural glory once the war was over.

_Once the war is over_, she mused. _If ever_.

Xxxxxxxxxx

_2 Days Earlier_

Anya would miss James Grant's office – she knew this. She could feel it when she inhaled in the room and took in that scent that she could only ever identify as an old library book from the days of yore.

Anya sat across from James. She observed him – he who looked so scholarly in his tweed jacket, smoking his sweet tobacco in his lacquer pipe… He who reminded her of the grandfather she simply could not remember… he who acted like a father figure, in the absence of her own father… and, of course, in the absence of Jack Dawson.

Jack Dawson – she had not heard his name in a long while. It had been months. Her thoughts drifted to him occasionally. He had practically raised her. When she asked him why he bothered to care, he would only say that he was a friend of her father. He would never elaborate. When her mother had her mood swings and unpredictably escaped Manhattan for the Hamptons on a whim, Dawson was there. When her two older brothers deserted her and left for the military, Dawson was there. When she got her Ph.D., Dawson sat beside her mother in the audience. When she gave her speech as leader of her class, Dawson's eyes watered. And Dawson took heat for this, of course -- when Claudette saw him come home from the ceremony, she chastised him: _What, are you married to those damn Metternich's? You know, I heard that woman, their mother – their mother's a Jew. What would my friends think?_

Anya thought little of her brothers, serving abroad. To dwell on such a thought would break her. Every day she read reports of the violence faced by American soldiers in Europe, North Africa, and Asia. She mentally crossed her fingers each day that she would not get a telegram from her mother. Telegrams only meant one thing – something that she had never wanted to face.

Nobody knew Anya had brothers – two brothers – named Silas and Will. Will was younger and sweeter, whilst Silas was more cut out for war. When Anya thought of Ron, her thoughts occasionally turned to Silas, for Silas, much like Ron, was the soldiering type. She had found it surprising, as she sat in James Grant's office watching him smoke his sweet tobacco, that she had thought little of her brothers while she was at Toccoa. And now, in September 1943, she'd be going off to a war of her own. She had hoped that her brothers would not find out – she knew the worry would affect them just as her worrying about them affected her sanity. When she saw her brothers she saw pieces of her father – their hair, their nose, their darker green eyes… she saw bits of her own history that she deemed too precious to lose.

"Does your head hurt a lot?" James asked with a laugh.

"Excuse me?"

"You're always lost in thought. Do your thoughts make your head hurt?" He joked.

"I didn't know you had a Ph.D. in psychology, James." She remarked casually, taking in the scent of his sweet tobacco. "But, by all means, dissect me."

"The train leaves in two days." His thoughtful blue eyes looked vivid and full of a historian's curiosity and imagination. "For New York. And then a ship will leave for England. And then we shall find ourselves in Aldbourne." He and Anya knew these things – they had known them for months. Hearing James say these things, however, made them even more real.

"I wonder if England is like the end of the world." Anya remarked, almost out of nowhere. "You and me, sitting at the world's end… James, I don't want the men to die." James looked at her all too knowingly.

"That's the risk you took when you became comrades. You know their names. Hell, you know some of their favorite foods, their sweethearts' names, their favorite pin up girls… That's the risk you ran, the risk you're running. And there's no turning back now. You're following them to war."

"And some of them will die. People die in war." She concluded morosely.

"When I listen to you speak, I can tell that you've never been a soldier." He said, not joking. There was no twinkle in his eye. "Your tone will change in the coming months, but don't let it get the best of you."

"Great." Another sarcastic response from Anya. She had been trying to evade reality. She thought of Ron – she finally could put a human face on a body that was going to war, and it scared the hell out of her.

James and Anya talked for the next two hours, going over their plans for the journey to England and beyond.

xxxxxxxxxx

_That night in Anya's room_.

After she heard the knock on her door she knew immediately who it was. Ron simply allowed himself to enter, knowing that he already had her permission.

"Don't care much about keeping up appearances now, do you?" Anya joked, noting that Ron was now visiting her room much more frequently. "The chain of command still cares."

"You know, you talk so much!" he said with a smile.

"And sometimes you don't talk enough!" she countered. "Come, lay in bed with me." Anya was in a silky chemise which clung to her figure. Ron kicked off his boots and began to disrobe until he was left only in his shorts, lying behind her body on the bed. The warm Georgia evening removed the necessity for Anya's duvet cover. One of her windows was open, allowing the late night breeze to flow throughout her room.

This had become their new routine. When they were not too tired, they would have sex. They would always, however, lie in bed together, spooning. He would protectively keep an arm around her as he took in the scent of her hair, which always smelled of vanilla. She had planned it that way – he knew that. Her hair _always_ smelled like vanilla.

Sometimes they would talk, and other times they would lay silent, looking at the flickering oil lamp that Anya kept on her nightstand. The flame would dance, lighting up the wall behind it and emitting a sense of irreplaceable warmth.

This night, however, was not spent in silence.

"And I can't convince you to stay?" Ron said, halfheartedly. O f course, he knew he would never be able to make her stay.

"You'd be wishing in vain." She answered softly, as he held her close. "I wouldn't miss this for the world and everything in it."

"I know." He said little else on this topic. The past few weeks had determined that this was an issue not even worth arguing over anymore. He kissed hair and held her tightly. She blew out the flame on the oil lamp and then leaned back against him.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

_September 4, 1943. New York City_.

Anya sat on the ship's deck next to Colonel Sink and James Grant. She was wearing the same sunglasses that she always wore when she found the sun too bright – they made her look like a stylish explorer, even an archaeologist.

"Well, if I had a drink on me, I'd say _salut!_" Grant said as he looked out over the harbor.

"Wait 'til we get to England and you have some of their warm beer." Sink said as he smoked his cigar, its smoke competing with the smoke rising from James' pipe.

"And that," Anya said, "is precisely why I'm sticking to tea and scotch. Separately of course."

Across the deck, Ron observed the three figures sitting next to each other on some of the chairs. He wanted to be with her, sitting next to her, listening to the ocean waves roll by. He admired her relationship with Colonel Sink – so many in her position would not have recognized the authority of a military figure. He saw her rise and wave goodbye to Sink and Grant, as she walked over to one of the rails off the ship.

The ship's horns began to emit a low, dull noise, indicating that the ship was to set sail. Anya leaned up on the rail for a good fifteen minutes in silence. There were men near her but she said nothing. Her eyes held Manhattan in their gaze. The city shrunk as the ship pulled her away from it, slowly at first but then later with growing speed. The city grew smaller and smaller in the distance. She took it all in – the art deco buildings which she had grown to love – the Statue of Liberty – and the bridges that inspired her as testaments to man's greatness.

As Anya was lost in the idea of Manhattan, she felt a presence next to her.

"Penny for your thoughts, o' genius?" She knew that voice. Lewis Nixon. She had secretly hoped it was Ron – she wanted to feel him put his arm around her and share this moment with her. She sighed to herself as she knew that could never happen – not here, not now.

"There is no city like New York." She said firmly.

"And there never will be." Lew said, his voice suddenly very serious. He understood the magnitude of the moment which he had interrupted. Anya's sentiments had rubbed off on him, causing him to feel a strange sense of sorrow for the first time in a long while.

"We'll see it again." She said. "Don't ask me why, but I know it. We will." Deep down, she had no idea if she'd ever see the city again. She knew that quite a few of the men on the ship would never see that city again. She wondered if Lew would, but then pushed the thoughts out of her mind. She didn't want to think of her friend like that.

The two shared a moment which they never spoke of, not even when they attended Easy reunions when they were much older. They stood in silence, unsure of what to say or what to think. They stood there, not moving, not speaking, barely breathing, until they could no longer see Manhattan's grandeur from the ship. When the skyline faded and became covered in fog, Lew turned to Anya.

"You know, I hear they have instant coffee in England." He said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Oh, don't say that!" Anya said as she swatted his arm. "Now you have me worried!"

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

_Four days later_.

She had been to London once, but hardly remembered anything. Anya had always wanted to go to the National Portrait Gallery, look at Buckingham Palace, and see the British Museum. Seeing those things now would have been silly. The constant threat of bombardment from the Luftwaffe instilled a morose sense of patriotism and unity within the British populous, especially those in London and cities like Liverpool. Anya saw Liverpudlians turn and look at the procession of Americans coming off of the ship at the wharf.

"Americans, I think!" "Look at their uniforms, never seen those before…" "Oh, bless my soul…" "Now it's all gone to shit!" "Eh Christ!" Anya overheard in a variety of British accents as she walked off of the pier with her fellow Americans and began to board a train that was waiting purposefully within yards of the wharf.

She lit a cigarette and began to take note of the people around her. After the people got over the shock of seeing the American soldiers in _different_ uniforms, their eyes turned to her. She had been wearing a skirt and matching jacket, which both stood out in a dark mauve. She wore smart looking heels – once again, higher than the ones the women around her wore. And perhaps, Anya thought, these things were not essential, going off to war – but then again, she thought, she wasn't going to be in a foxhole. She wasn't going to be jumping out of airplanes – she hoped – and if she had these clothes lying around, why not wear them?

She saw women – women everywhere. Women, just like the time Ron took her to listen to Wagner in that old Georgia church. Women – and mostly women – because they men were off at war. The women looked at her and for first time in a very long time, Anya felt a pang of guilt. Guilt for her shoes and her mauve skirt suit and her rayon stockings – which, of course, had been subjected to rationing. Guilt for her lipstick and her French cosmetics – guilt for jewelry, though she wore it daintily. She had her father's book bag with her – the rest of her belongings had been shipped separately to Aldbourne.

The sun was not shining and she felt as if she was in an industrial wasteland. A few women sniggered as they saw her and muttered things to themselves. Others simply stared, unaware of why a woman was traveling on the troop ship that had just arrived. Lewis Nixon had been walking beside her, with his a cigarette hanging cockily out of his mouth.

"Strange sight, you think?" He muttered to her. "It's like you're god damned Marlene Dietrich!"

"Lew, I suppose I'm wildly unpopular to these women right now." She answered. She opened her book bag and pulled out a cigarette. "Do you have a light?" She asked Lew. Lew responded by pulling his Zippo out of his pocket.

One of the women who had been standing next to the train, her eyes fixed on Anya. She stared at her not with malice, but with an underlying sense of curiosity. Anya caught her eyes and shot her a soft smile. The woman smiled back at her. As Anya walked closer to the train, she better made out the facial feature of the women. She had looked gorgeous, but weary of war.

"Lew, gimme back that Zippo." Anya said, not even giving him a moment to protest. Anya took the light and ran over to the woman standing next to the train.

"Fancy a smoke?" She asked politely. "It's no Benson and Hedges, but I'm sure it isn't _too _bad, eh?" The woman in front of her smiled. Anya opened her book bag and pulled out a Lucky Strike, extending it to the woman. The woman took the cigarette and put it in between her lips, as Anya raised the Zippo to meet it.

"You Americans aren't that bad, then?" She joked. "War's been going on a _long _time. Haven't had a cigarette in a while…" The woman took a satisfied drag from the Lucky Strike and blew the smoke out seductively.

"Have the box." Anya said, pulling the box of Lucky's out of her bag. "I can get more easily." Anya closed her book bag firmly as if to show that she would not take back her offer.

"You're not a nurse." The woman observed as she kindly took the box out of Anya's hands. "What's your name, then?"

"Anya Metternich. I'm an historian. We're going up to Aldbourne. I'm sure you heard of it?" The woman nodded. "And of course, what is _your_ name?"

"Leah Roberts." She said coyly as she took pleasure from ever whiff of her cigarette. Anya turned slightly and saw Lewis Nixon standing beside her, nudging her. It was time to leave…

"Well, Leah Roberts, if you ever find yourself in Aldbourne… it's near Swindon, you know… look me up. I'm attached to this lot, and they're hard to miss." Anya said, regretting that their exchange had been so brief. Anya had seen a piece of herself in Leah and felt sorry to leave.

"Will do, Anya Metternich. Safe travels." Leah said. Anya nodded with a smile. She then turned away and boarded the train.

"Making friends everywhere, I see…" Lewis Nixon muttered as he took a seat next to Anya on the train. Anya shot him a grin and looked out of the train's window onto the wharf.

"Never thought I'd be back in Europe again, Mr. Nixon."

"Never thought I'd live through Georgia, little Miss Metternich." He said as he opened his flask and took a quick yet secretive swig from it. "And that being said, I'm surprised you survived that too. With Sobel and all. Hell, I'm surprised _he_ survived."

"Eh, you can't always get what you want, can you?"

The train rolled out of the wharf and into the English countryside, moving southeast to Swindon and then to Aldbourne. For most of the train ride, it rained. Anya was glad she was not walking.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Three months passed by with little thought. Anya remained busy, often with Colonel Sink and Dr. Grant, presiding over reports and endless maps and battle plans. She was among other historians and military tacticians, often in a room that quickly filled with cigarette and tobacco smoke. She was the only woman in the group.

Intelligence gathering had come naturally to her, which she believed was a result of her work with the Institute back in New York City before she had joined in the war effort. She had not resumed German language lessons after she left Toccoa – at this point she had achieved fluency, but barely. She was able to read documents that had been stolen by American and Allied spies, all in German, which had surprised her.

One day in December she walked out of her intelligence meeting for a bit of air and a cigarette.

She was surprised to see Lewis Nixon standing outside with the same thing in mind.

"So, once upon a time, there was an asshole drill sergeant in charge of Easy Company…" Lew started, with a devilish grin. Anya lit her cigarette and stood next to him.

"Yeah, and?" Anya inquired, liking where Nixon was going.

"And then a trickster named George Luz proved his worth…" He stated, causing Anya's eyes to widen. George Luz had developed a reputation in Aldbourne and Anya had heard of his antics.

"And, do I need to be proposing marriage to Mr. Luz anytime soon?" Anya asked, smiling.

"Oh, you might, after you hear this one. Let's just say there was a _planned miscommunication_ during training the other day which a certain Captain Sobel was not privy to, yet all others were…"

"Continue…"

"And to make a long boring story short, George Luz is Jesus… and a certain Captain Sobel is going to Chilton Foliat to act as a jump instructor." Lew looked into Anya's eyes and took on a tone of seriousness. "And this means that I won't be following that inept bastard into battle – this is the same man who can't read a god damned map."

"_Chilton Foliat_," Anya said in a fake French accent. She blew cigarette smoke in the direction of Nixon. "_Chilton Foliat, je t'aime!_" She continued, adding insane amounts of cheesiness to her accent. Lew laughed in response.

"God's name is Chilton Foliat." Lewis Nixon concluded. "And Colonel Sink is an angel of mercy." Nixon watched a group of men doing exercises about five hundred yards away in the distance.

"Well, you know what I think about Sink." Anya remarked. "That man is a genius. He knows everything that happens with this regiment. Everything. That man is a mastermind. I would never want to cross him, because he's brilliant."

"What, is he giving you a raise or something?" Nix joked, blowing his cigarette smoke in Anya's direction. She nudged him playfully as she lit another cigarette. "How's your lieutenant doing?" Lew said, changing the tone of his voice.

Before Anya could answer, she heard a voice that she knew all too well.

"He's fine." Lew turned to face Ron who had been conveniently walking by them as he was asking her that question. "Can you excuse us for a moment, Lieutenant Nixon?"

Nixon shot Anya an apologetic glance and began to walk away, without saying a word.

"He sees you more than I do." Ron stated simply.

"Jealous now, are we?" Anya shot back.

"Do I have any reason to be?" Ron asked.

"Quit it, Ron. You know female friends are hard to come by here." She said. Ron nodded.

"You know how it is these days… Sorry…" Ron only ever apologized to Anya, but even then he did so rarely. "How's work going?"

"Stressful, honestly. Everything I'm doing is going towards something that I don't even want to happen – you jumping to fight Nazis. Easier said than done." She said softly.

"You knew how it was when you agreed to even work for the Airborne in the first place. Don't get cold feet now, Metternich." He said with confidence. Anya smiled. "And don't worry about me, okay? You're supposed to be worrying about yourself."

"Lieutenant's orders?" Anya asked coyly. Ron stepped up closer to her, brushing against her body causing her to shiver. He grabbed her ass forcefully and he watched as she seductively bit her bottom lip.

"Lieutenant's orders." He whispered into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "I have a 48 hour pass for this weekend." He didn't ask her to come with him – he expected it. He watched as she bit her lip and it made him weak in the knees – a weakness he would never admit to anyone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The weekend had not come soon enough. Anya had been bored with her work; Ron had been training vigorously. She sat on the passenger side of the Jeep as she watched Ron on her right, shifting gears. The Jeeps that the Americans brought over were all in the American style, with the steering wheel on the left – which made things considerably easier in England. Anya still shuddered at the thought of being on the road with other Americans or Canadians who may have forgotten to drive on the other side.

"You look really cute when you bite your bottom lip like that." Ron said randomly, as he noticed she had been doing for a while. Anya instinctively stopped biting on her lip. "It's like you've done something wrong and you need to be punished."

"How will I be punished, then?" She asked innocently.

"You'll have to wait for that, woman. And if I catch you playing with yourself while I'm driving…"

"You'll do what?"

"I won't be very happy with you." He said, half joking, half serious. These weren't Georgia roads. They were British roads during wartime, oft-traveled by American, Canadians, and Brits alike. He didn't want those men – those _other_ men to see Anya – _his _Anya. Anya understood what Ron meant, however, and decided not to put them in an awkward situation.

"Where are we going?" She asked, if only to make conversation. She wanted sex – she didn't care about the name of the inn that they'd be staying in, or whether or they'd travel county lines to get there.

"To a place where I can fuck you." He said, understanding her by now. They had been at this for months.

"You know me all too well by now…" she purred as she looked at him.

When they got to the small hotel, the woman at the front desk asked no questions. This had been a common sight in these parts, as of late. Men in uniform with women in civilian clothes – usually the women were British, however. It was rare to see an American couple.

In uncertain times, there was nobody willing to pass moral judgment on anybody. People were bound by circumstances beyond their control and the woman at the front desk of the hotel often saw two people in front of her trying to fit an entire year – or perhaps a short lifetime – into one evening's encounter. It was tragic, almost, but only if one thought about that way. The woman at the front desk tried not to think about it, if only to save herself from depression. Her husband had died in the war anyways – she knew this all too well.

After they closed the door, they sat on the bed together. Perhaps moments passed by, or even an hour. Little mattered when they were in each other's presence. Ron was not forceful with her that night – he was gentle.

He began to kiss her softly, while tenderly taking her clothes off. He noticed that her collarbones looked sharper – he could see her ribs more – and he noticed that her hair no longer smelled like soft vanilla. As continued to undress her, he saw her begin to shake lightly. He looked at her face and saw tears beginning to form at the creases of her eyes.

"Come here." He said very softly, as he pulled her close to him, hugging her tightly. "Don't think about that stuff, please. I'm still here." His words were quiet and she could hear the love that resonated within every syllable.

"We have 'til June."

"Anya, I'm not supposed to know that." He said, realizing that she was giving away pieces of top secret information.

"I know, but what does it matter? We have 'til June. Then you're jumping into France. June." She said, tears all the more evident. "And who will you tell? Nobody. It doesn't matter."

"Lay down with me, Anya." He said as he pulled her down to the mattress with him. He rested his head on one of the pillows and held her nestled in front him. He wanted her so badly – he had been waiting weeks for this moment – but he couldn't take her tonight. Not in the current state she was in. He wasn't a conqueror. On that night, he realized that he could not live without her. If they didn't have sex, it was okay. He would be fine merely holding her silently throughout the night. If they never spoke, that was fine too – for they were fluent in caresses and their silent gestures.

They fell asleep as they were, with Ron holding Anya close to him. Perhaps this was the secret that the woman at the front desk guarded so closely – sometimes, she knew that the maids never even changed the sheets on the beds, for no passionate affairs had occurred in the nights prior. Sometimes, the most intimate things occurred lying on top of the sheets, feeling only the touch of the person next to you.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Will Metternich was holed up in the French safe-house next to Jack Dawson. The two sat in a small dining room, which was in a house deeply hidden in the countryside. The whole estate and its grounds had been covered with the harsh winter snow. The small house was run unofficially by the American government as a means of protecting its citizens behind enemy lines.

Dawson never thought he would end up in a safe-house, boarded up waiting for the Allied invasion of France. And, of course, he never thought he'd end up in this predicament with Anya Metternich's brother, of all people.

An American woman sat at the table drinking some hot coffee. She never gave anybody her name – in fact, unless people came to this house together, names were never known. It was safest to stay as anonymous as possible. Code names were used, if anything. The woman who sat at the table looked like a German fashion model, which Dawson deduced was most likely the story she played up in order to infiltrate the German high command. Her job had been to romance one of the officers in the German Waffen SS, which she did with little emotion and great satisfaction. Her cover had been blown after she was caught humming American jazz to herself in the shower.

_Who is that?_ The officer asked with his aristocratic German accent.

_Thelonious Monk_, she replied, half awake in the shower. She had replied in an American accent. She didn't realize her error until she heard the click of a luger in the bathroom. The officer's shot had missed and hit one of the bathroom tiles. She managed to attack him with a shaving razor and slash his throat, only after great difficulty. After she left his corpse in the bathroom, she had run through his office like a madwoman taking any and all of the useful documents she could find. She stuffed them in her brassiere, in her skirt, in her jacket, in her small suitcase… And then she summoned a taxi and left the large estate which stood on the French and Swiss border. Her code name was Lipstick. Dawson knew only of her code name and her exploits as a spy. The reports he read impressed him. He had not, however, desired to be in a safe house hiding from the Gestapo with Lipstick. That was not his grand plan.

Dawson's name was Billings, after the city in Montana. Will's name was Neem – which stood for Nijmegen, the city in which he was born. Neem, Billings, and Lipstick sat at the dining room table, all drinking black coffee and smoking cheap French cigarettes.

"Six months, you mean to say?" Lipstick asked, annoyed that her hard espionage work could not afford her a quicker escape.

"Command says anything earlier is too risky." Dawson replied, emotionless. "I'd rather not be here as well, if that's any consolation." Lipstick laughed quietly in agreement.

"I think it's safe to say we're wanted throughout the Reich by now." Will said as he mulled over his coffee. "They're looking for us."

"Which is why we _stay _here." Dawson said, understanding that Will was young and wanted to escape more than anybody else.

"We stay here, Neem. Why? The world is quiet here. Be thankful for that." With those words, Will became silent.

While they were waiting for the Allied Invasion, they all found ways of keeping occupied. Will scoured over French, Swiss, and German newspapers, looking for clues that his fellow spies may have left. Jack and Lipstick became proficient in the fine art of wheeling and dealing in poker.

It was to be a long winter.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_The same hotel in Swindon, the final day of Ron's leave of absence_.

The December chill permeated through the windows of the hotel. Anya and Ron had not left the room, let alone the bed. The two remained wrapped in the blankets, which were luxurious compared to Aldbourne. Ron rose from bed twice to have hot foot delivered to the room. His American dollars had gone far.

Ron knew that Anya had money, but he hated the thought of her paying for anything that had to do with them as a couple. He took a great sense of pride in providing for her, which he usually kept to himself – he knew this was something Anya would go on about if she knew.

That night they listened to jazz on the radio followed by some opera. A motivational speech read by Winston Churchill soon came on the radio afterwards. Anya quickly turned the radio off at the sound of his voice. Ron knew that the "glorious fight" was something that she didn't want to think about.

"Tell me about your family, Ron." She said randomly, in an attempt to take her mind off of the war.

"My parents are from Scotland, where I was born… as you know… And then we moved to Maine… via Boston, actually… when I was a child." He started.

"Are you an only child?"

"Yes."

"I have two older brothers." Ron suddenly became nervous at her admission.

"And where are they now?" He asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"Silas is the eldest, and I think he's in North Africa right now. He volunteered for the Army before the war even started. Will is… I don't know where Will is, come to think of it. He's involved with the war, but I'm not sure what he does. He's very private about it. He probably does something really dangerous, to be honest. I know he doesn't want me to worry."

"You've been getting thinner." Ron said, on the topic of her worrying. "Worry less and eat more, please?"

"It's easier said than done." She said simply, not wishing to press the issue further. She had grown less curvy. Her breasts and hips were still prominent, but her figure was less luscious and more boney, which was easily noticeable.

"When did you join the military?" Anya asked, hoping to change the subject.

"In high school."

"What did you want to be when you were little?"

"A soldier. And I'm assuming you wanted a Ph.D. in American history…"

"Correct, actually. I guess this means we're very ambitious and dedicated people, lieutenant." She said in the soft voice which he loved.

"And… your mother lives alone in Manhattan now…" he said, putting together the pieces of her family history that he knew about. He knew about her father, but he chose not to bring it up.

"Living off her inheritance. I'm not upset about it... I think she lost her sanity, quite honestly," she said solemnly. "I hope she's happy."

The two were quiet for a while, laying together and listening to the dull sound of cars rolling by outside. As the American troop presence in the area increased, so did the traffic.

"And what do you think you'll do when this is all over?" Ron asked quietly in her ear.

"I don't know. Maybe write a book about it?" She joked, causing him to laugh. She hadn't heard his laugh in a long while and she reveled in it. "I'm not worried about finding work. I can work anywhere." She said this in earnest, not bragging. Ron understood what she meant.

"You think you could find work in Maine?" He asked, almost biting his tongue after he heard the words come out of his mouth.

"You never know…" she answered enigmatically, unsure of his true meaning.

He lightly kissed the tip of her ear and rolled on top of Anya, pinning her down on the bed.

"And now, I believe we have some unfinished business that we need to attend to." He pressed his hardness against Anya's body. "Promptly."


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note**: Thanks for reading.

This chapter is a long time in the making. I got some really bad writer's block. Anyways, I'm back!

Chapter 15 will not be as long as my usual chapters (10 pages, not 18). It was originally 20+ pages, but I decided to cut the chapter in half. What you read here is the first half of what's to come. The second half of Chapter 15 will simply become Chapter 16. I realized that I was covering far too many things in the span of one chapter and it was getting really daunting as a writer.

This chapter goes out to all of my great reviewers who have been really inspiring in terms of this story's writing process. Thanks for the reviews and please keep them coming. They mean a lot and they definitely provide me with the drive to keep this story going when I might not want to (i.e. when I might want to be watching Stargate or something cause I'm a nerd).

And, of course, as a reward, the next chapter is going to have a cliché dance and a lot of steamy Speirs/Anya porn. So sit tight, kiddies.

**Chapter 15**

Christmas and January had crept up on Aldbourne and taken it by surprise. Allan Vest, working at the regiment post office, was kept busy this season. Packages were constantly being received – packages from places from as far as Anchorage, Alaska or Bothell, Washington. The townspeople that helped to sort out the mail were often surprised, for they saw more packages than they had seen sent via post in a very long while. Times had been tough in the United Kingdom, but if one looked at the regiment post room, one would have assumed Americans were all rolling in money.

Many of the gifts were not what one would expect, though. Warm layers for Malarkey, a pair of brass knuckles for Toye, a pistol for one of the other men… Anya often stopped at the regiment post office in case she received any mail. She occasionally did.

On January 9, she entered into the post office not expecting anything. It had merely become a habit. She would often collect items on behalf of James Grant or mail for Lewis Nixon; she enjoyed the feeling of being helpful.

"Dr. Metternich?" said Allan Vest as he sorted through letters that were in front of him.

"Yes private?"

"You have a letter." Anya was surprised.

"For James Grant or Lewis Nixon?" Vest shook his head.

"Nope, I have a letter for a _Doctor Anya V. Metternich, 101__st__ Airborne_. Mail got routed here. There's no return information, though." Anya looked puzzled. Vest handed her the letter and he returned to his task of sorting the mail.

Anya walked out of the post office and straight to her room. The letter was too curious a thing to open in plain sight of the rest of the town.

The envelope was neat, but there were quite a few stamps on it. It had been forwarded multiple times and with great haste. It had been two four or five countries in less than a matter of two weeks. This only served to add to the intrigue surrounding the letter.

Without hesitation, she opened the envelope and pulled the letter out, unfolding it. She looked at the handwriting and was instantly taken aback. It couldn't be. She knew that handwriting. Her heart stopped and she started reading, desperate for answers.

_Salut,_

_Neem's here. Quiet. We're Waiting._

_We Send OUR Love,_

_Billings_

She knew nothing of "Neem" or "Billings", but she knew Jack Dawson's handwriting like the back of her hand. It was a second nature to her.

The letter wasn't dead, though, she thought as she brought it to her desk and turned on her desk lamp. It was a clue. It was full of clues. Anya opened one of her drawers and found the originally letter Jack had sent her telling her about Toccoa. She compared the handwriting and smiled. The writing was identical.

_Salut_. She looked at the greeting. It was French. She instantly deduced he was either in France or Switzerland.

_Neem's here. _Neem. Neem. Neem. She went over this in her head, going through any and every memory that she had stored. She remembered the cocktail party she had been at with Jack Dawson, back when he was married to Claudette. _"Where are you from, originally?" _Claudette had asked slight disdain. Will spoke up, eager to shut the tramp up, _"Nijmegen. It's in Holland."_ Claudette looked as if she had just eaten a lemon. _"Neem-something. How do you pronounce that then?_" She turned to Jack who had a look of embarrassment evident on his face. _"Neem. Ay. Gen. Neem,_" he started, making eye contact with Anya. _"Ay. Gen._" He finished this as if he was talking to a dog. Perhaps he thought he was.

Anya could feel it in her bones, in the depths of her being. Jack was with her brother. Jack's code name was _Neem_. She felt it.

_Quiet_. They were in a safe-house. This was the language the Intelligence Department and the Department of Defense used when describing any agent in a foreign territory. Her heart raced as she read this.

_We're Waiting_. Waiting for what? She paused, thinking. What on earth could they be waiting in a safe-house for? The "W" in waiting was capitalized, indicating it was highly important. Jack had stressed it above all over words. The he had used to write left slight indentation marks in the paper. Anya traced the slight marks and realized that this was incredibly important. They were waiting for something of massive importance which many would not even think of. "They're waiting for the invasion." Anya said to herself quietly. She took a cigarette and her Zippo off her desk and lit it silently, her eyes never moving from the paper. "They're waiting for us." She continued to herself. The invasion couldn't fail, now for even more reasons.

_We send OUR Love_. Again, OUR was more important than the rest of the sentence and Love came in at a close second. "OUR" because Will was there along with Jack, which gave Anya more hope. And Love, because it was her brother and the man who had acted as a father when she had none.

_Billings_. Anya laughed and found this clever. Billings, Montana. "You old cowboy," she said quietly, chuckling. "You old cowboy."

Jack had been clever, she realized – for he gave her all she needed. She looked out for their names in Intelligence reports with a keen eye, hoping to do anything she could to improve their situation. She occasionally saw _Neem_ and _Billings _appear in reports, often with their exploits and their last known location divulged. Nobody in the Intelligence Department – unless they were running things, and even then, maybe not – could place names to people. Nobody could. Anya kept her knowledge safeguarded close to her heart in order to keep their secrets safe.

xxxxxxxxxx

_A cold April afternoon, Aldbourne._

It was raining. The officer laid down the pig intestines and guts in the pit, putting barbed wire above the slop.

Ron looked out over the training course and he knew what he had to do. The men in Dog and Easy stood around him and they waited. He was a lieutenant, but it didn't matter. He'd crawl through the muck and mire with the rest of them. He saw Lewis Nixon standing down the line, looking tired. It was six am.

The whistle blew and Ron hit the button on his stop watch, quickly putting it in one of his pockets before anybody could see what he was doing. He ran with the rest of the men, easily gaining an advantage. If this was a race, he was winning.

The pig intestines didn't really faze him. He heard the moans of disgust from some of the men. He heard the guy next to him exclaim "Oh for fuck's sake. Again with the fucking pig."

Ron's face had smeared pig blood on it. The stench was gross, but it didn't matter. He continued to crawl through. He ran and he proceeded to climb ropes and jump off of man-made mini-cliffs. He jumped over barbed wire and pulled the weight of his body over a wooden barricade.

By the time he got back to where he started, he took his stop watch out of his pocket. Three minutes and seven seconds had expired. He had finished first. This was nothing new, however. He usually finished first. Every time he did this, he raced against his previous best time. Every time he did this, he improved. Two days ago, he had done the course in three minutes and nine seconds. He was slowly shaving down his time, much to his pleasure.

The men began to finish the course and they looked at him without much surprise. They had been used to Ronald Speirs by now. At first, he confused them. He didn't seem to care for much, save the feel of his finger on a trigger or the taste of victory. He never smiled and often stood by himself, smoking a cigarette. He was never rude. He never had much to say. The drill instructor never corrected him, and always walked past him whenever there was an inspection.

Yet, he terrified them. After the first week at Toccoa, nobody talked to him, because he never bothered to talk. And it wasn't because they thought he was elitist. He wasn't. They knew he wasn't an elitist or a snob. They knew, however, that he was terrifying. His eyes were the type of brown so dark it was difficult to tell whether or not he had pupils. Usually, when a man never smiled, you'd look to his eyes to read him. When you looked at Ron, you got no such reading. He was in control of everything. If he ever displayed emotion, it was because he went out of his way to do so.

"Beat your best?" the drill instructor asked Ron, always expecting improvement. He could tell the type of soldier that Ron was. He knew Ron was the type that picked the Army before there was any worry about Hitler or Mussolini. He was the type of man that had always wanted to be a soldier and would most likely survive the war easily, only going on to remain a soldier in the years to follow. The drill instructor was the same type of man.

"Yes." Ron said, sternly. "Cigarette?" He pulled out a Lucky Strike and gave it to the instructor. This was not a gesture of kindness, as one might assume. It was simply a ritual, an act of bestowing approval on a man deemed one's equal. This happened every time without fail.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

_May 1, 1943_

She looked over the maps once more, sitting next to Colonel Sink. She wanted desperately for invasion to happen – she thought every day of her brother and Dawson. The thought of Ron and her other comrades jumping into danger frightened her beyond belief. She needed Jack and Will to hold on, though. She had used as much of her weight as possible to argue for an earlier invasion on June 5. Dr. Grant was on her side. A few of the others in the Intelligence Office wanted it to happen in August or September, so they could better prepare for the invasion.

It was half past four o'clock in the afternoon when Colonel Sink asked Anya to accompany him into his office – alone.

He lit a cigar and poured her a small glass of bourbon.

"Oh God, this is going to be a whopper, isn't it?" She said, unsure of whether or not she should be joking, given the fact he was giving her a drink to wash down any news with.

He saw the instant look of desperation in her eyes. He knew she had two brothers serving, one of which was potentially behind enemy lines.

"Nothing like that," he said with a subdued voice. "Nothing like that." Anya sighed a sigh of relief and took a sip out of the small jar of water she had been carrying in her bag.

"Well, in that case." Anya said and Sink smiled slightly.

"How do you like England, Dr. Metternich?"

"It's fine, I suppose. It's no New York, but you take what you can get… even if it means drinking warm beer." Sink laughed when he heard her words.

"Would you be interested in going to France after the beachhead is secured?" Anya thought of two men when she quickly contemplated her answer: Will and Ron. She thought of Will, hiding out somewhere in the French countryside. Then she thought of Ron, who would be furious when she told him the news.

"You're a very difficult man to refuse, Colonel." She said with a smile, indicating that she would follow him throughout Europe. "I suppose I'll follow you 'til the bitter end."

He told her that she'd be safe at the head quarters – as relatively safe as she could be. She later would joke that she was armed only with a stolen luger and a typewriter, which was not entirely a lie.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_May 27, 1944._

They had stolen another weekend in a random hotel in the English countryside. Anya had just told him the news – she had agreed with work with Colonel Sink, by his side, until the end of the war.

"You'll make me an old man, Anya." Ron said looking at the woman who he laid in bed with.

"It isn't the front lines…" She began to reason, knowing she was playing with fire.

"You damn well know that the Germans pick where the front is. We don't have a fucking choice." His words were like ice – they cut through her and paralyzed her. "Think about somebody besides yourself for a change. It would do you some good." Anya sat up when she heard him.

"Excuse me?" At that moment he realized he probably should hot nave spoken. "I didn't realize working for the Intelligence Bureau in the Department of Defense was selfish. I don't need to listen to this, Ron." She got up and began to clothe herself. She hastily threw her clothing in her small weekend bag and proceeded to put her shoes on. She walked to the door of the room and looked at Ron who was sitting on the bed, looking at her with a sense of astonishment.

"Never had that happen to you before, eh? A woman walk out on you? I'm not one of your fucking guys in D Company you is afraid of you. It would do _you_ some good to remember that." She opened the door to leave and then turned back to look at him for a brief moment. "Good day, Ron."

Ron cursed at himself inwardly. He lit a cigarette and sat in the bed smoking quietly, staring at the blue wallpaper that adorned the hotel room's walls. The dollars he wasted on the room didn't bother him as much as the lost weekend.

She told him that the invasion would come in the beginning of June. He didn't have any time that he could afford losing.

For the first time in his life, Ron Speirs believed that he might die. Perhaps pride was his greatest flaw – he never perceived himself to be mortal like the men around him. Time was trivial. Anything could be accomplished, because he willed it. His ambition was far greater than that of those around him, and this was wildly evident. When he sat in a plane ready to jump, people were irked by his demeanor. They thought he looked like he didn't care – he could live, he could die, it wouldn't matter. Of course, they were mistaken. Ron wanted to live more than anything.

And, of course, he didn't want to jump into France on bad terms with her. It wouldn't be right to leave her like that.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jack Dawson sat with Will at the kitchen table looking over an old newspaper. Newspapers rarely came to the safe-house anymore. A man who called himself Artie presided over the safe-house and stopped by every week with food items. A newspaper was a welcome gift, which Lipstick, Dawson, and Will all enjoyed. The little information that they did get from the paper they had to interpret on their own, for the paper was published in occupied Vichy France. Getting an American paper was impossible, illegal, and highly suspicious.

"Germans are making gains in Russia, it says…" Lipstick said as she sipped some weak tea. She pointed at the newer newspaper which Artie had just given them.

"You know that's a lie." Dawson retorted, unwilling to believe it.

"That country is a wasteland." Will commented, looking at the paper with disbelief. "That's the land where Empires go to die."

"You sound like your sister." Dawson said quietly as he lit one of the dreadful French cigarettes. Will looked at him with a sense of surprise. Dawson never walked about Anya.

The sound of feint motor in the distance pulled them all from their conversation. The gravel on the long, winding pathway began to crack under the pressure of tires. Cars never came to the house and the sound of the cracking gravel had never before been heard. Artie came by bicycle and then he walked two miles on foot to avoid being followed, taking a different route each time.

Dawson instinctively ran over to a cabinet and pulled out his sniper rifle. He attached the scope that lay beside it and he mechanically ran over to the window. Peering through the convenient gap between the curtain panels of the open window, he mounted his rifle and peered through his scope carefully.

Two men had just parked a small Jeep-style vehicle within a one minute walking distance from the house. They were armed – both with weapons and papers. Perhaps the papers were about the need for acquiring the estate for military purpose – Jack didn't want to think about it.

"Pack your bags." He said as he held his cigarette between his lips. "I've got two SS, possibly Gestapo, armed. They'll be at the door in less than one minute. I can take them both with my rifle in less than six seconds." Jack put out his cigarette quickly, dabbing it against the ugly wallpaper and then throwing it onto the carpet. "It's go time."

Lipstick had debating with herself whether or not the two men that she had spent time in the safe-house were military. The actions that she saw unravel before her proved to her that the men were. She had never seen a man like Billings – the way he knew exactly what to do in any situation – or the way he changed his plans according to anything that may have changed in the situation he had to deal with… Lipstick was rather difficult to impress.

The first shot that was fired hit the first German officer directly in the head. He dropped to the ground, crushing the gravel on the path with the dead weight of his corpse. The second man had little time to register what actually happened before his head, too, was met with a bullet. The shot had been a bit messier than the first one, yet the man crumpled to the ground in the same fashion as the first.

"We're in trouble." Jack said with a slight smirk. "Grab your gear. We need to leave."

"How can you smile at a time like this?!" Lipstick shrieked.

"The thrill of the kill, baby." Jack laughed at the implausibility of the absurd situation that he now found himself in. His voice suddenly grew serious. "Artie's most likely dead if they found the address and bothered to send two officers. When those two don't return to their outpost, we're gonna find ourselves in a bad situation _real_ soon." When Jack Dawson was under pressure, his Montana drawl crept out, but barely.

Lipstick had a small bag with a few necessities. Her clothing looked impeccable, as she had been cooped up in the same building for months on end. Will had nothing, save for a small picture of himself with Silas and Anya. Dawson had his rifle and scope. He quickly found a bag to disguise the firearm.

"We need to get rid of those bodies…" Will said, stating the obvious.

"I have an idea." Dawson said, cutting Will off.

The three found themselves standing on the gravel in front of the corpses two and a half minutes later.

Dawson stood over bodies, analyzing their size and shape. He then turned to Will and Lipstick with a smile.

"Will, I'm not gonna call it charity… but we've just found ourselves some new clothes." Lipstick smirked as she heard them.

"And you don't happen to have a female Nazi get-up hiding somewhere in your plans now, do you?" She joked as she lit a French cigarette.

"No, but I have a woman just perfect for the role of _prisoner_." Once she heard Jack's words, she understood what was going on. Jack and Will proceeded to drag the bodies into the bushes near the path. They quickly stripped off their clothing and changed into the SS uniforms, which much to their joy fit them pretty well. The two stepped out of the bushes and Lipstick looked at them with a smirk.

"No, no, it will never work." She joked. "You're supposed to be Gestapo. Look a bit meaner. And no smirking. Absolutely no smirking. And god damn it, I better get to keep a luger in my purse."

"The lady shall have her way…" Jack murmured as the three walked down the gravel path toward the road.

The house had been on the outskirts of Belfort, a town immediately west of Basel, Switzerland. Jack pulled out a small map when they got to the road at the end of the gravel path.

"There's going to be an invasion very soon, probably within a week or two. We have to get to the Normandy coast at all costs." He looked at Lipstick and will with stern eyes. "A good friend of mine who was working with Intelligence back in the States told me that the Allies would divert Nazi intelligence to believe the invasion point is Calais – shortest distance between France and England. The invasion will be more along the lines of Caen and Le Havre."

"And the plan?" Will asked, as he took out a compass.

"We go west. To the Seine – then we ride that river upstream to Paris. We bypass Paris on foot. Going through the city is too risky. We then resume travel up the Seine until we get to Rouen and then along the beachfront. We'll find a sleepy village, get rid of the uniforms, and then focus on re-connecting with the good guys." Jack closed the map and put it in his uniform pocket. "Are we clear?" Lipstick and Will nodded in agreement.

As they walked, the sun began to set, illuminating the sky in shades of red and orange.

"Might be pretty if it wasn't behind enemy lines," Will muttered.

"There's beauty everywhere." Lipstick said quietly. "You're both military." She said, feigning no surprise.

"Well, after this day's events, didn't take too long for that goblin to come out of the closet." Jack joked.

"My real name is Julia." She said quietly. "We're in this together now, until the bitter end. You may call me by my real name." Though they had been ordered to keep their identities secret, Jack was an impeccable judge of character. He trusted his instincts and he knew that Julia was one of them.

"Noted. I'm Jack Dawson and this, here, is Will Metternich."

"I may seem like a cold-hearted bitch, quite frankly… but I'd rather if we die, we die among friends rather than strangers."

As Julie said those words, the sun continued to sink into the horizon. Will looked northwest with a renewed sense of hope.

xxxxxxx

_June 2, 1944. Aldbourne._

She sat in the pub, right up at the bar looking over her scotch. The glass sat on a coaster advertising _Newcastle Brown Ale – the One and Only_, next to last week's New York Times crossword. Anya absentmindedly doodled around the puzzle with her pen, not knowing what to think. The dance would be tonight – a final send off before the invasion. She had a few more hours.

She wondered, earlier, if she should even go. She wanted to see Ron, but she didn't know what to say to him. He would probably be angry with her, and she didn't want to make him angry before the big jump. Rather, she didn't want to awkwardly come up with the words to say when she had no such words to explain her feelings. He was a man unlike any other she had ever met – he filled her with a wild sense of desire, which she had never felt before… and it was liberating. He admired her ambition, which was a rarity – for most men were intimidated by her accomplishments. He had, however, admonished her for her decisions and called her selfish. He could be really cold-hearted at times, she thought. He could be hard-headed and impossible to get through to.

"Mind if I pull up a stool?" she heard Lewis Nixon say in a charming voice.

"Go right ahead." She said these words without emotion.

"Are you looking for answers?" He asked her as he took a seat. "Cause you sure as hell ain't gonna find them at the bottom of that glass." Anya looked at him with a sense of disbelief.

"Why don't you ever take your own advice?" She asked, not in the mood to joke. Lew's jovial expression faded and he looked down at her glass.

"Because you know, much like I do, that it never works." He said this quietly. The barkeep walked up to him and asked him what he fancied. "One of what she's having."

"That man is insufferable." Anya commented.

"You love him." He said, again quietly.

"Is it obvious?"

"I know your type of person. You don't let people get to you unless they're special."

"You're the same."

"Yeah… We could have been siblings."

"Don't die, brother." She said with a sense of sadness.

"Hey. Stop it. Don't think about the jump. You aren't jumping. You're following Sink when the beachhead is secured. Don't think like that. And please, Anya, just worry about yourself for once. Please." _I beseech you, _he wanted to add… but he wasn't the type to beseech anybody. He was Lewis Nixon.

"So." Anya said, in an attempt to change the mood. "This dance tonight… Are you going?"

"As long as you'll be there," he replied with a smirk.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:**

_Please review_and let me know how you think I'm doing. It means a lot, especially with all of the work, school, getting snowed in, shoveling said snow, driving around like an idiot, and random crap that has been going on. Eh, call it life.

This chapter will live up to this story's M rating. If Speirs porn isn't your cup of tea, then you might want to skip the latter portion of this chapter. And seriously, if Speirs porn isn't your cup of tea, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you….

Thanks for reading – and thanks for sticking with this story while I've taken _ages_ to write new chapters. It means a lot.

**Chapter 16**

She blamed Lewis Nixon as took a red dress out of a garment bag. The dress had been silk, bestowed upon her before the war broke out. Anya had tall gold heels that matched, one of the few pairs she bothered to bring to England. She sat at a bench in her room looking into the mirror, analyzing how she should prepare her face.

Her makeup lay neatly in front of her. She pulled out her brushes and quickly got to work. The bottom of her hair was in curlers, which she put in to form a long, loose curl. She wondered why she was putting so much effort into the dance.

_Ron_. She damned him and what he did to her. _Oh God damn it!_ She thought as she prepared her makeup. Anya had planned on being more subtle, but then when she got to thinking about Ron, her plans changed. She wanted to be dramatic, like a film siren. She wanted him to go weak in the knees – she knew she held this power over him.

After a good thirty minutes of preparation, Anya slid out of her dressing gown and proceeded to zip up her red dress, all the while looking at herself in the mirror. She followed this act by quickly removing the curlers from her hair, combing her hair slightly, and then adding a dash of hairspray. She had a small matching purse which stored her lighter, cigarettes, some money, and lipstick – all of the essentials.

She heard a knock at her door and she ran over, in her tall gold heels, to open the door.

"James Grant!" Anya said with a sense of surprise. He wore a charming tweed suit and a pipe was held firmly in between his lips. He smelled of peppermint and sweet tobacco, which Anya found enchanting.

"'Tis a bit late, but I hope you'll accompany me to the dance." He said this with a twinkle in his eye. Anya was incredibly happy with is offer – James' presence was a sense of calm, moral support that she could find nowhere else.

"I'd be honored, good sir." Anya said this graciously. She ran to her grab her purse and then reappeared in front of James, and the two proceeded to walk into the warm Summer night.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Evreux, France; at the same time._

"I wonder what a proper mattress feels like. I've forgotten." Julia mused, to which Jack and Will smiled.

"You'll remember soon enough. We're almost there." Will said. Night had fallen. The three Americans walked as fast as they could, as they had abandoned the convenience of the Seine. They mostly walked in silence, as there was nothing left to say. They had a quiet understanding that could not be explained. They understood each other deeply – Will knew when Julia was upset by looking at her eyes; Jack knew when they needed to rest by looking at the way Will twitched his nose.

"I haven't felt this in a long time." Jack said randomly. "The feeling that you've crossed the expanse of the globe just to meet one goal – a goal which has danced in front of my eyes day and night, in the distance, waiting to be claimed."

"Quite a predicament," Julia said as they continued walking, past the sunset and into the dark French night. The countryside was idyllic, like most of France had been.

"I would walk to the ends of the earth for this goal. To the ends of the earth." Jack said. "You'd have to kill me to stop me." He added this quietly as they continued on with their trek.

"The safe-house is a mile away…" Will mentioned as they continued walking.

"Aye, when we get there, the plans are as follows: we sit tight and wait for the invasion. It's coming soon and when it happens, there's no mistaking it. We'll know. But we need to sit tight."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

_In the meantime, back in Aldbourne…_

Anya walked into the pub on James Grant's arm. She had a smile on her face, as she looked at the happy faces around her. It was like the impending invasion did not exist. A man stood at the front of the pub on a make shift stage with the fragments of what would have been a big band had there been no war. There were two saxophones, a trumpet, and a small piano. A small drum set lingered in the background with a man sitting at its helm, ready to play. The band was American, clearly brought over for one purpose and one purpose only – morale.

The singer rallied his musicians and they began to play an older tune. The man crooned with what appeared to be all of his heart. As Anya and James walked through the pub to the bar top, eyes turned to the woman in red. Anya lost herself in the music, the cigarette smoke, and the strange sense of pride she felt. After years of hard work, this is where she ended up – and it wasn't all too bad, she thought. She did pretty well for herself.

"Get yourself a seat while I get us much needed libations." James said with that ever present twinkle in his eye. Anya walked over to a table and sat down observing the people around her. The women there were all English, mainly from Aldbourne – dates snatched up at the very last minute – or, rather, women in desperate need of men to warm their beds before the well of men was to dry up and they were to move out. Anya lit a cigarette and smiled to herself, watching the men walk in with their dates and fill up the pub.

It was almost like being back in New York City, she thought. Almost. The band continued to play and the lead singer was charismatic, fancying that he was the _real_ Glenn Miller. Anya tapped her feet against the floor and hummed to herself, recalling that she had heard this particular song before and rather enjoyed it. _That _was what brought her back to New York. She heard the song at a large party of her mother's, right before she went off to Toccoa. Things were different now, yet the song re-awakened feelings of boldness that she had not felt within her in a long time. The song shook her to the core and made her feel vibrant and full of life. Her red silk dress was radiant against the dim lights that flickered throughout the pub.

James returned with two gin and tonics, both garnished with limes.

"James, you always know my poisons…" James smiled as Anya took the drink.

"You have an admirer approaching." James replied with a twinkle in his eye. Anya turned around and found Lew walking up to her. She smiled at him and he smirked back at her.

"If it isn't the lovely Anya Metternich." Lew said in a charming voice. "I'm going to get a dance out of you before there's a line."

"If you'll excuse me, James," Anya said politely.

"I expect nothing less, my dear." He smiled. He had worried that she would not live for herself – that she would get lost in her work. James Grant was glad that she looked to be enjoying herself.

Lewis took Anya's hand and she rose from her seat. Had Lewis met her now for the first time, he probably would have gone out of his way to woo her, to potentially take her to his bed… and maybe something more would have come out of it. Things were different, though, for they knew each other far too well. They had been through a lot together and they knew, deep down, that nothing would ever go further with their friendship. Lewis Nixon was okay with this, for he wanted to avoid death at all costs. The thought of potentially taking Anya away from Ronald Speirs terrified him. He saw the look in Speirs' eyes when he saw him and Anya together – it was a determined look that had the power to suck the life out of a human body. It terrified Lewis Nixon.

Lew put his arm behind Anya's back and held her close during the dance. They danced an exciting dance, spinning around the dance floor unlike the other couples that had been there. It was evident when watching them that they had both been brought up in an environment where dancing at a party was expected and required. Anya's silk dress looked like dark red liquid as it moved with her body throughout their dance. The music had picked up and it was fast; the musicians fed off of the friendly passion that was being exuded on the dance floor. A few of the couples stopped to watch, inspired by the zestful performance that was occurring before them. As the song died down, the room erupted with applause.

"Well, leave it to Americans to shake up a number like that!" the singer said charismatically as he ushered in the transition from the faster song to a much slower tune. The couples who had been watching Lew and Anya began to file onto the dance floor. Lew and Anya laughed, having let off a large amount of pent up steam.

"I haven't danced like that in ages, Lew. Who knew you were such a showman!" Anya brushed some of the wrinkles out of her skirt as she smiled.

"And I expect nothing less from the _ever illustrious _Anya Metternich. You're a real city girl, you know that?" He said, making her laugh. The smile faded from his face, however, as he looked behind Anya. Ronald Speirs stood there, staring Lewis Nixon down with his dark brown eyes. Ron's eyes were so brown that it was difficult to discern iris from pupil. Anya saw the smile fade from Lew's face and turned around to satisfy her curiosity.

"Ron!" She said, surprised. She had not expected him to be there.

"Lieutenant Nixon, if you'll excuse us…" Ron said in a less than cordial tone. Lew, preferring to avoid a conflict at all costs, backed off and went to the bar to find himself a gin and tonic.

"I hadn't expected you to show up, Ron." Anya said. "I'm happy you're here, though." He would have made a comment about Lewis Nixon but he saw the way Lew looked at Anya – there was a platonic passion that he knew he could not touch, not even to save himself.

"You dance very well." He said, paying her a compliment. "I only hope I can dare to compete with Mr. Nixon." He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close to him, not caring if anybody saw. They would be jumping out of airplanes behind enemy lines in less than a week. He didn't care who saw – _let them see me, let them see us, let them stare…_ The warmth of her body drew him in. He pulled her closer, her head almost up against his chest. He felt her heart beating rapidly, still recovering from her jaunt on the dance floor. Anya reached up and stood on her toes, bringing her lips to his ear.

"There is no competition." She whispered seductively. She then looked up at him, smiling. Ron returned the smile and, in turn, looked at the woman who stood before him.

"I… apologize for the way I talked to you before." Apologies from Ronald Speirs were rare, as he rarely made mistakes that warranted apologies. "Well, what I'm meaning to say is that… I support you, and whatever job you undertake."

"Your approval means the world, Ron," Anya said as she looked up at him. Lewis Nixon watched as he stood next to Dick Winters, observing the two. Even he had to admit they looked good together.

"I also feel the need to tell you that you look incredibly beautiful right now." He said these words quietly to her as the music faded. She began to blush, her face almost matching her dress.

"You're covering all the bases tonight, _my _lieutenant," Anya joked with her melodious voice. Ron could feel his heart beat faster upon hearing her words. He was hers.

"It's getting rather hot in here, don't you think?" he said, in a poor attempt to take her on a walk around Aldbourne. Ron frowned inwardly to himself as he caught his stupid line. He only ever had stupid lines with Anya – with any other woman he could have spoken thoughtlessly.

"You're a terrible liar, Ron. I would love to go on a walk with you, however," she said throwing him a wink. He smirked and the two ceased dancing. She slipped her arm in his and they left the pub, causing much chatter amongst those who had been surprised to see "Sparky" so smitten with their beloved professor.

"I knew it, I tell ya." Guarnere said randomly, as he stood at the dartboard with Johnny Martin and Bull.

"Bull shit, you knew it. That one came out of nowhere." Johnny remarked as he took his turn at the dart board. He threw his dart and it hit the center of the target. "Bull's eye. You owe me a beer."

Bill sighed loudly as he walked over to the bar top to buy a beer from the pretty bartender. It was a night full of surprises.

Anya walked out of the bar with her arm entwined in Ron's.

"Come to think of it, I guess I'll miss this place…" Anya started saying, as she looked over the hedges that bordered the small roads in Aldbourne.

"I will certainly miss a few things." Ron said this as he looked at her. He worried that private moments would be few and far in between the closer they got to the front.

"Little time will pass before you'll have those things again," Anya started, knowing full well what he was referring to. "Out of all things, don't worry about that." She smiled slightly as she looked at Ron. The night was warm with a faint breeze. Her mind drifted off to after dinner walks she would take with her brothers in Central Park. Anya's smile faded as these thoughts continued to play through her head. Ron noticed instantly.

"Anya?" He looked down to her and she looked off into the distance, staring at the houses far down the road. A few seconds passed until he heard her voice again.

"Ron, I need to tell you something." As he heard her first sentence he winced inwardly, hoping desperately that she was not going to leave him. "My brother's in France right now. So is Jack Dawson." The sinking feeling in Ron's stomach was replaced with curiosity and confusion.

"Your brother Will?" He asked, remembering that she told him about Silas serving in North Africa.

"That's the one." She said this wryly, lacking excitement. "I got a letter a little while ago from Jack Dawson. It was encoded. He's with Will and they've been jumping from safe house to safe house in France. I can only guess they were on an incredibly secret mission and their lives depended on their hiding away. But he said they'll be waiting…" She went on.

"Do you know where?" Ron asked.

"I can only guess they've figured an invasion is coming – Jack must have known – I mean, he's a general for Christ's sake!" She said this with hope in her voice. "I know them, Ron. And I know that if they're safe, they're moving t0 Northern France in hopes of meeting up with the invasion."

"I'm sure everything will work out, Anya…" Ron started.

"Ron, I need you to promise that you'll look out for him." Anya said. "Jack can take care of himself, it's no worry… but if you find Will, you need to tell him where I am. I want to see him." Anya opened her small purse and pulled out a photo of Silas, Will, and herself. She handed it to Ron, who looked at it carefully. Silas and Will were in their military uniforms and Anya stood in between them, proud as ever. She wore a feminine suit. If one looked at this picture and judged the ambition of these three siblings, one would have been greatly impressed. Ron turned the photo over and saw _February 1941_ written on the back of the photo in black script. Anya's smile in the photograph was intoxicating – it was clear that this was a glimpse of her life before the war had come into it. Her face looked slightly fuller and less stressed out.

Ron looked into her green eyes and held her gaze.

"Anya, I promise you that I will do what I can to keep him safe." This was all Ron could promise – he could not offer more.

"Thanks, Ron. That means a lot." Anya said as she took his hand and walked with him down the English country road.

They walked in silence for a few moments until they reached the end of town. A few hedges stood in between them and the rolling countryside, which was brought to life by the evening sky.

As they stood in silence looking over the countryside, Ron pulled Anya close to him, hugging her. After a short while she broke away from the hug and looked up into his eyes, holding his gaze.

Ron gave her a cocky smile – _of course he would_, she thought – and leaned down to her. He captured her lips in his, nibbling on her lower lip with his teeth. Anya deepened the kiss causing Ron to moan deeply. She loved it when he moaned – for she loved knowing that she, nobody else, had the ability to do that.

She could feel him growing hard against her; the sensation caused heat to spread down to her sex, inducing wetness and sensations that soared up through her belly and through her very being. She shivered with excitement, with longing, and with anticipation. There was a sense of urgency in the kiss. She wondered whether it was because of the impending invasion or the argument that they had previously had – and after giving it a thought, she realized that she simply did not care. She wanted him and there was no room for interpretation.

"Anya…" he moaned, his voice husky and laden with want.

She giggled slightly as he moved his lips to her neck, kissing her and nipping her skin. He broke away from her and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Come with me." He said, full of need and lust. This was not a request – it was an order. He took Anya's hand and guided her down the winding country roads of Aldbourne. They walked through the warm summer night with the light zephyrs dancing against their skin. Anya could feel the lightly breeze flowing through her long hair, igniting a fire within her that she had not felt in a long while. She felt alive.

They began to walk faster, urgency evident in their quickened pace. Anya started to fall behind slightly. Ron paused and looked behind him smiling.

"I thought you were a runner, Miss Metternich."

"Mr. Speirs, I'll be damned if I ran Currahee in heels!" She protested, feigning indignance. Ron looked at her and imagined her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving beneath him. He couldn't wait for her to keep up behind him. He needed her.

"Well, then we'll have to improvise." Ron moved towards her and lifted her up, carrying her in his arms.

"You're insane!" She exclaimed, as he continued to run through the dimly lit streets carrying her and holding her close to him.

"That, I believe, is something open to interpretation." He said this huskily and with authority – the type of authority that was not to be questioned.

Anya was silently for the brief jaunt through the village.

"We're here." Ron said as he stopped running and gently placed her down on the ground. She looked at the small cottage before them. Sheppard's Inn was an establishment that she had heard of before, per the recommendation of Colonel Sink.

"You're going AWOL for the evening, Ron?" Anya asked with a sense of surprise.

"Babe, I'm a Lieutenant."

"Well that doesn't necessarily make you a general." She joked back at him. He gave her a stern look.

"If I have any more protests from you, young lady, you'll be punished." Her cheeks flushed at the thought of him having his way with her. She could feel heat rushing down to her most sensitive region, causing her to feel waves of lust and need wash over her body.

They walked into the Inn silently, Ron holding her hand. The woman at the front desk gave the two a disapproving look, probably thinking that this was another sad chapter in the never ending tale of American servicemen wooing, sexing, and then leaving English women. After receiving the old skeleton key for their room, they walked silently through the dimly lit corridor that led them to their quaint room.

Ron had felt privileged to see her then, alone with him in the room. He took out his Zippo and lit the candles that had been placed all around the room – a request that he made and paid for with his persuasive American dollars. He watched Anya's face grow illuminated as the candles provided the room with a sense of dreamy warmth that he had not seen in a long while.

Her cheeks were red and the red dress looked like sultry liquid in the candlelit room. Her lips here full and parted slightly, perhaps asking him to kiss her – or perhaps taken aback by the scene that was laid out before her.

Ron walked over to Anya and reached out to touch her cheek.

"Don't walk out on me again." He said this not as an order, but as a much needed request.

"Don't give me any reason to." Anya answered sweetly, smiling slightly. He felt his erection growing as he looked at her sweet countenance and her look of innocence, so readily shown to him. She looked so fragile and perfect to him. Her figure, though it had slimmed down due to stress and endless work, looked womanly and curvaceous in her red dress. He reached out to her and found the zipper on her dress. He slowly pulled it down and she did not protest to his bold action. The dress eventually fell to the floor and Anya stood before him in a black lace bustier and matching lace panties.

Anya needed no invitation to start undressing him. She reached for his tie and began to take slide it off of his shirt. She slowly – painfully slowly – unbuttoned each button of his shirt as he the scantily clad woman stand before him. He was hard – rock hard – and he could feel his pants getting uncomfortable.

"Quite the perfectionist, eh?" he breathed huskily as he watched her.

"I'm just… stimulating… your interest…" Anya said as she began to kiss his neck after undoing another button on his shirt.

"That's what they call it now?" he moaned as she tortured him.

"Something like that." Anya laughed as she returned to the buttons on his shirt, undoing another small white button. She then turned to herself, pressing a finger against her wetness, feeling her sex through her lace panties. Ron could barely contain himself as she began to feel her body, moaning all the while. After pleasuring herself for a few moments, she returned to the last few buttons on his shirt, finally beginning to undo them.

"Enough of that, woman!" Ron exclaimed as he hastily began to finish the job that she had started. Anya helped Ron slide his formal shirt off of his rock hard body. Warmth and wetness surged through her as she saw that Ron looked as good as ever. Sensing her reaction, Ron smiled cockily and looked down at her. "You like that?" Anya smiled coyly and parted her lips ever so slightly.

She turned to him once again and began unbuckling the belt on his trousers, slowly taking the black piece of leather off of him.

"You're so impatient, Lieutenant." Anya said with lust in her voice. "You're so used to getting what you want whenever you please."

"You think that's going to change now?" Ron teased with a cocky look on his face. "Get down on that bed and kneel on it."

"You're calling the shots now?"

"I'm calling the shots now." He affirmed with a strong voice. He wanted her. He wanted to take her and keep her forever.

"By what authority?" She asked, as she ran her fingers through her long hair.

"I'm your superior officer."

"Oh?" Anya asked with a feigned naivety.

"Oh yes." Ron said as he nonchalantly kicked off his dress boots and socks. His hands shifted to his trousers, which he took off easily. He wasn't wearing boxers. "I thought I gave you an order, Miss." Ron said authoritatively.

Anya looked at him and realized that this was serious. The thought of him dominating her made her squirm and throb. She looked at his erect sex which she had missed with a passion. He was big and hard, looking at her like she was his prey. She proceeded to go over to the bed and she knelt on it like Ron had requested. She faced him.

"Little Anya, you should know by now that the proper way to answer your superior officer is with _Sir_."

"Yes…" Anya started. "Sir…"

"Good. Now crouch on all fours. Come close, to the edge of the bed." She followed his orders. Anya looked up at him innocently as she faced his swollen sex. "Yes, just like that." He said this barely able to contain his want and lust.

He looked down at her before him and felt a sharp sense of accomplishment – accomplishment that he could have obtained such a smart and attractive woman. Accomplishment that he could have worked so hard to win her back after upsetting her… accomplishment that _he_ was the one that stood in front of her in this position, looking at her from this vantage point.

"Use your mouth." He ordered her. She pretended to be disgusted, though she was overwhelmed by his size.

"Yes…. _Sir._" She said, looking up at him with wide eyes. He felt a surge of blood rush to his sex. He needed her. Anya brought her lips to his cock and began to kiss it. Ron moaned at the sensation of the first contact. Her parted her lips and lightly moved her tongue over his length, slathering it with wetness and showering it with affection.

Anya heard Ron moan. She began to take him into her mouth this time, thrusting him in and out of her at varying rates.

"Anya…" she heard him moan forcefully. Anya took his sex out of her mouth and held it in her hand.

"Yes sir?" She asked with feigned naivety, looking up at him. She smiled coyly.

"You're evil…" he moaned as he felt her hand run up and down his length, stroking him lightly.

"Yes sir…" Anya laughed as she took him back into her mouth and struggled to accommodate his size. After a few moments of wet thrusting, Ron looked down at her with immense lust. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Stop…" he purred huskily, finding it difficult to form coherent sentences when she was pleasuring him so.

"Yes sir?" She said quietly, meekly even.

"I need you." He said these words with desperate honesty. Anya looked up from the bed and stopped what she was doing. "Now." He added, breaking from emotional honesty to the chilling voice he used when discussing war. This moment, much like the war around them, had become a matter of life and death.

Anya rose from the bed and began to kiss him fiercely, ignoring Ron's request to play the master. She pulled him toward her and they became tangled in each other, kissing each other sensuously. Lost in the emotions which they had expressed in the kiss, they fell onto the bed. The flickering flames of the candles danced on the walls, illuminating the room and filling it with images of warmth. Ron pulled away from the kiss and watched the candlelight dance on Anya's light flesh. The curves of her body were only made more intense by the way in which her black lace lingerie covered her.

Ron looked over her body as he unhooked her bra, liberating her large breasts. He moaned as he saw her – upon hearing this she grew wetter and her wetness throbbed with even more intensity. Ron reached down to her lace panties and felt her wetness on his fingers. Upon feeling the intensity of her desire, he quickly pulled her lingerie off and tossed it onto the chair next to the bed.

"You're not wasting your time." Anya joked. Ron shot her a look of utter seriousness. It was at that moment when Anya realized that this could very well be the last time that they engaged in such a devious act. The emotions ran across Anya's eyes, which Ron took note of.

"Don't think." He ordered with a strong voice, knowing that she suffered from her ability to think far too much. He gave her a meaningful look as he pulled her close – a look which he had never given to anybody else before. With little warning, Ron pushed his sex into her slick channel and thrust into her with full force and intensity, making clear his emotions and intentions.

Anya often wondered what he wanted from her – now, and after the war. Anya realized, at that point, that he wanted everything – and would give her everything. She moaned as he thrust slowly and intensely in and out of her, kissing her neck and holding her close.

She said nothing, for sometimes she had spoken to him when they had sex – this time, there was silence. There was the candlelight dancing on the wallpaper and the changing of the lights on his tanned skin – there was the open window which let warm summer zephyrs slip into the room and run over their hot skin. And there was the sensation of sheets rubbing up against flesh sticky with sweat and adoration – coupled, of course, with the sound of moans and husky growls, which came to life only as a result of the human drive to express admiration and lust.

Without words, Ron pulled himself out of Anya and turned her around so that her back was against his chest. He then pressed into her once more, this time rubbing his free fingers against her most sensitive region. Her moans grew louder and became more frequent.

_Ron_, he heard her cry out as the pleasure began to overwhelm her. _Ron_. He was unsure of whether or not it was real or not – the way in which her voice desperately called out for him. It could have very well been a dream masquerading itself off as reality – something which he dared not to think about on the eve of the brutality that was to come.

_Ron!_ She screamed, bringing him back to reality. "Ron… please!" He heard her, understanding that this was real and this was now. He thrust harder and rubbed his fingers with even more fervor. He felt Anya's body grow limp; her legs wrapped in between his. He could feel her legs press against his as she moaned loudly and without regret.

"Ron!" she screamed out into the night, causing him to lose all sense of self control as he felt her body go completely limp in front of him. She whimpered after the shocking sensation of lightness and pleasure washed over her body, bathing her every limb in its wake. Ron growled into her ear, causing him to shiver, as he unloaded his lust and want deep into her body.

He, too, went limp, as he held her closely to him, still inside of her. The candles began to flicker out, one after another – evidence of the frugality of wartime England. The candles had burned out long before they went to sleep; they remained in that very position. Ron knew not how long, but he didn't care.

The two faded off to sleep in that same position, saying nothing – for they knew they had communicated everything they needed to say.

Anya woke up the next morning to find Ron sitting in the chair next to the bed. Anya turned over to her side and saw a fresh breakfast on the nightstand. She quirked an eyebrow as Ron gave her a smirk.

"Trying to impress, I see. That's how it's going to work?" she joked. Ron pulled the chair closer to the bed.

"I have to leave in a few minutes." Ron said quietly, as he looked at her sadly. "But, I have something for you." Anya gave him a look of curiosity. Ron retrieved a package from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

"Thank you?" Anya said with a confused smile.

"Well, go on, open it." Anya peeled off the paper carefully and laughed as she saw what lay in her hands.

A cigarette lighter of Lucite. The man had a memory to rival her own. Ron chuckled as he saw Anya's smile.

He'd miss her alright. Women like her were hard to find.

A/N: End of that chapter. In an earlier chapter Anya mentions that she wants nothing more than a Lucite cigarette lighter so her fingers don't smell of cigarettes.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: This chapter has been a _long _time coming. I appreciate you all sticking with this story and I hope that you continue to do so in the future. Don't forget to leave me a review and let me know what you think! It's highly motivational. ;)

Of course, you know, it would be fabulous, miraculous, and lovely if everybody who likes this story enough to add it to their 'favorites' and 'story alerts' dropped a review in celebration of the end of my writer's block. You know you want to!

Also, I have decided to break up D-Day into 2 chapters to make for easier reading. :)

**Chapter 17**

England was a strange land full of strange people, Anya chuckled to herself as she stood at a podium staring down the men of Dog Company and Easy Company. This was to be her last lecture. The strangeness of England, she felt, had most to do with the British stiff upper lip that she encountered. She often had to remind herself that the English were largely unaware that Operation Overlord would be occurring within the next day – and they had little idea that the weight of the world – and the fate of the war, potentially, was hanging in the balance.

Anya tried to hide the emotions that she desperately wished would not show through on her facial features. She wanted to scream, to cry, to shout, and to dance – all at the same time – as she bore witness to the young and vibrant life that sat before her. Some – many, perhaps – would get wounded or die. She tried not to think of these things as she stood at her podium. The thoughts of death and destruction kept creeping into her mind, however, as the men watched her intently.

"Just one moment." She said to the men as she walked over to her purse and grabbed her box of Lucky Strikes. Putting one of the cigarettes into her cigarette holder, she pulled out her Zippo and struck a light. She heard laughter from the audience. Many lauded her for being genuine; it was obvious that she did not want to be giving this 'last lecture' – just as many of the men did not want to be sitting there.

Ron smirked as he saw the lucite cigarette holder that she was holding. His gift sat in her elegant right hand, ever so nonchalantly, as a testament to her feminine power.

"Men," she started, looking over the crowd. Her eyes met with Ron's but she averted them and began to look over the sea of men in their brown uniforms. "When I first came to Toccoa, I hadn't any idea that I'd be standing before you here, in Uppottery, England. Hell, I don't even like England." The men began to laugh. "But, we're here, together. I just want to let you know that it's been an honor... and that I believe in all of you and what you're about to do." Her voice cracked slightly, emotion evident in her melodious voice. Lewis Nixon quirked an eyebrow and stared her down, instilling within her the strength to continue her speech.

"And if any sons of bitches back home disagree, I'll defend you until the day I die." She said with conviction. Hoots and hollers from the crowd before her followed. "I mean that, too."

"We know!" shouted George Luz as loudly as he could. A few of the men clapped proudly.

"I know you're all trying to hold back the tears, now, this being our last lecture and all..." Anya joked. "But, unfortunately for you all, this isn't the last you'll be seeing of me. I'm following you, after you jump. I'll. Be working with Reconnaissance and Intelligence." The room erupted with applause. Anya took a dainty drag from her cigarette and continued onward. "I'm proud of you all. Please have a safe jump – and fight a damn good fight. I can't ask anymore of you." Anya took another drag from her cigarette. She was met with the loud applause of the men before her. She could hear Colonel Sink and James Grant behind her clapping. She turned around and Sink had a wide grin on his face. She smiled at him.

The tension in the room, however, was overwhelming. Finding it impossible to hold her emotions, Anya gave the men one last smile and walked out of the large lecture hall. She finished her cigarette outside, in silence, embracing the solitude of the mild June night in England. The pinks and oranges of the sky were fading into the moors and the rolling green farm hills in the distance. The cows and sheep, Anya mused, felt no sense of death hanging over their heads. They had no concept of what was to follow in the next days. Perhaps, she thought, ignorance truly was bliss.

It could have been an hour that passed by, but she did not know it, for she was lost in the English sunset over Uppottery. Her thoughts drifted off to whether or not people in New York City were preparing for nights out in the many clubs and bars. She wondered whether or not The Rising Sun on the Upper West Side was packed to the brim; she wondered whether or not Jim Bellows was stretching out his old joints to prepare him for the happy hour onslaught that was to come.

And she wondered, above all, whether or not those people felt any shame – living their lives as nothing else was happening. They knew that there was a war going on, and they felt the effects of rationing. They saw the men on the troop ships and on the trains; they saw them coming off of the planes and running through the stations. They did not, however, see the coffins with the American flags draped over them; they did not see the ashes laid out to sea for the many dead. They understood little of the SS or the Bataan Death March forced by the Japanese Imperial Army; they were so damned far detached from the searing pain of seeing people ripped out of their homes and deported.

They were like the cows and the sheep on the fields, she realized. They rose and they met the sun, committing themselves only to the same old routine, only to perform similar rituals when they bade the moon goodnight every evening. They knew little of joy or suffering or laughter or pain; they knew little of life itself. Life is here – life is in the fields – in the lecture halls – on the piers – on the ships and the trains and the endless ferries and the airplanes – life is here! She shouted inside of her head, watching the sun finally sink beneath the English earth.

"Care to speak about it?" a cold voice asked from behind her. She smirked as she identified the voice as Ron's.

"I'm just thinking about New York." Anya remarked, continuing to look over the countryside.

"You know, many of the men tell their families back home not to think of the war." He said, understanding the heavy emotion in her voice. In truth, he had been standing behind her and observing her for the past ten minutes, but he would never tell her such a think. "I can see the contempt you hold for them – I can see it in the way you stand, the way you smoke, and the way you stretch out your arms."

"It's a shame you're so observant. Now I can't make excuses." Anya joked, turning to him and taking in his appearance. His brown eyes were full of life, love, and intensity.

"We're leaving now." He stated this simply, masking any emotion that he held in his voice. "You need to get to the train, Anya. It's a long ride to the eastern shore."

"I know..." she said with a sense of longing in her voice. "Is this it?" She asked meekly, looking up at him.

"No." He answered with a sense of authority.

"What makes you think so?" She asked, curiously.

"It's a shame you're such an historian, trying to get all of the facts and figures," he said with a smirk. "This isn't 'it', Anya, because I said so."

"I think you're letting your rank, Lieutenant Spears, get to your head." She said with sad humor.

"You've been saying that since I first met you, Doctor Metternich." He closed the distance between himself and her, not caring who dared to watch them. "You need to stay safe." He inched closer to her form as he continued what he was saying. "Colonel Sink is a smart man, Anya. Listen to him. Don't be afraid to use your side arm if you have to." He put his hands on her shoulders, making sure she paid attention to his words. "When it's safe, you'll come over with the brass... and I'll see you again."

"You're sure?" She asked, looking up at the man who stood before her.

"Positive."

"I believe you." She said, her lower lip trembling. "I believe everything you say." Without letting her say anything else, Ron leaned down and covered her lips with his own. He nibbled on her bottom lip; then his tongue darted on her soft lips begging for entry. Their tongues danced with a sense of passion only felt by two lovers that knew they would be separated by immeasurable difficulty and hardship. The kiss was strong and passionate, full of intensity and life. He wanted to leave her something to remember him by... but he knew that he would not die. He could not die. All Ronald Speirs wanted to do – and this was from a very young age – was to live. He wanted to breathe free air and feel the wind rush through his dark brown hair. He wanted to feel the sand crunch beneath his toes as he ran over the expanse of a beach and inhaled the soothing scent of salty ocean air. He wanted to feel Anya beneath him as his legs grew tangled with hers – with the pair covered by little, save for a thin sheet. He yearned for the fast and repetitive motion of his feed hitting the pavement as he ran across city blocks and suburban town centers, carried by nothing but the will in his heart... the will which penetrated his very being and coursed through his veins... the will... the will to live.

And in that kiss, Anya felt all of that – his will and ambition. As their tongues danced and the cool evening air blew over their skin, Anya could feel all of Ron's strength and desire reinforcing her own will to carry on.

And it was moments... seconds... moments to be remembered for a life time... moments... seconds...

And Ron pulled away from Anya, looking down into her wide green eyes.

"I need to go now." He stated, keeping a firm face. He looked as if he had been a Roman warrior god, standing strong and tall in the dark of the evening. "And you need to go to your train." He reached down and pressed his forehead against Anya's, taking in the spark between them. They lingered like that, taking in each others warmth, and then they broke away. "And you'll find me – I'll find you – in France. In a few days." He finished.

"Ron..." Anya started. A slight smirk played across her face, as she felt the transfer of energy into her being.

He pulled away and raised an eyebrow.

"I love you." Anya stated with conviction, saying those words to Ron – in public – for the very first time.

Ron walked back to Anya and pulled her into a gentle, loving kiss. Anya felt Ron display emotion which she did not know he was capable of expressing in such a way. His hard exterior melted away into the English night; the crickets chirped and the faint sound of army Jeeps passing by filled up their eardrums.

He pulled away and looked at Anya, cupping her cheek.

"I feel the same way about you, Anya." He paused. "That's why you have to be safe for me... for yourself..." He kissed her forehead. "I'll see you in France." Anya nodded her head and watched Ron's form retreat into the night, walking toward Uppottery's airfield.

Anya proceeded to walk to her quarters to grab two suitcases. She hastily left her temporary quarters and ran down the stairs to meet Colonel Sink and James Grant in the foyer of the temporary Officers' Residences. A motorcade of Jeeps and military trucks was waiting outside to transfer the brass and civilian employees of the Department of Defense to the train station. There, at the train station, they would board a train from county Devon in the direction of Dover – on the south east coast of the island nation of England.

It was in Dover where Anya would wait with other personnel, desperate to hear news of the success of Allied troops in Operation Overlord.

x.x.x.x.x.x.

Dover, the next day.

Anya stared out over the foggy ocean. The salt water from the English Channel swam through her nostrils and invigorated her senses. She felt empty, however, gazing out across the sea, staring out into the distance. She felt like she was a siren with a candle, illuminating the pathway home for the soldiers that would hopefully be returning from the sea.

Yet, she knew not what would happen, as she gazed out over the water and wrestled with the mission that she had advocated. She stood next to James Grant for days on end, advocating an Allied advance in France... an Allied advance that would come to pass only when paratroopers would be dropped behind enemy lines to neutralize German forces... an Allied advance that would only come to be when the men she had been instructing for the past two years –_ her men_ – had hurled themselves in to the sky over France. The thought made her sick as she looked at the murky water. Small waves hit the pier and the docks; the sound of fishing boats pulling into the harbor filled her ears. She could hear gulls overhead, fresh in from their flight over the vast expanse of the ocean.

The smell of sweet tobacco, however, pulled Anya from her thoughts. She turned to face the scent of the tobacco and saw James Grant to her left. The old man, as per usual, had a twinkle in his eye.

"You wrestle with it day and night, don't you?" he asked quietly, taking a puff from his pipe. "I told the brass and all of the uniforms that this was the best idea. I even spoke with President Roosevelt..." he mused, as he watched the ocean like Anya was.

"And here we are, years later, contemplating whether or not we made the correct decision." Anya said somberly.

"Anya Metternich, if you look hard, you will find that we have made the correct decision. You will also remember, young one, that the correct decision may not be the decision one wants to make. Sometimes, the path that we must follow is the one filled with risks, trials... and great sacrifice. You have to grapple with the weight of the world, you know."

"Sometimes I feel like Atlas, with the Earth in my arms, hoisted over my shoulders." Anya confessed, still looking into the ocean.

"And there will be a time when you must realize that you are not standing alone." James remarked, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "And only when you realize that will you be free."

The two stood in silence looking southeast – in the direction of France. Anya wondered whether or not she would be able to force her eyes to see Fortress Europa in the distance. After a few moments of trying, she scolded herself inwardly, reminding herself that she was no longer an eight year old child wishing for the impossible.

"You know what I hate?" Anya said suddenly, turning to James.

"I can venture a guess..."

Before James could finish his sentence, Anya answered her own question: "Waiting."

x.x.x.x.x.x.

_Meanwhile, somewhere along the Normandy coast..._

Julia sat at the kitchen table staring at yesterday's newspaper. A cheap French cigarette sat between her rouged lips. An ashtray was nonchalantly strewn across the table, with little respect for rhyme or reason. Will sat across from Julia, twiddling his thumbs. Jack Dawson sat a stool looking out the window, gazing into the French sky.

"I just realized something, fellas." Julia exclaimed suddenly. "I hate France!" Jack chuckled and took a drag from the cigarette which he had already smoked down to its bitter end. Will smiled.

"Aww, I thought you liked it here. I mean, this place is a fixer-upper..." Will remarked.

"I don't think I can take much more of this." Julia said with a quirked eyebrow. She put out the last of her cigarette in the crystal ashtray.

"Is it the curtains?" Jack asked sarcastically.

"It could damn well be. I was in search of Macy's... but then this old war broke out..." Julia lamented with a smile.

Julia and Will engaged him some small talk, discussing what they would do when they got back to the United States.

Suddenly, a faint sound buzzed through the night sky.

"Quiet!" Jack said loudly. He looked at the sky diligently; it was dark now. The buzzing, however, brought a smile to his face. "Today's the day."

"Are you serious?!" Julia exclaimed as she jumped up from her chair. She rushed over to the window.

"At last, the cavalry." Will said, smiling, as he followed Julia to the window.

"Grab your gear. We're heading out." Jack stated authoritatively as he rose from his stool and went to grab his sniper rifle and jacket. "I have a pretty damn good idea of where our guys will be landing. They'll be sending in paratroopers first. I want to meet up with them first. I've been keeping myself abreast of the German activity in the area, as well as gun locations. Our primary goal, at this moment, is to connect with the 101st Airborne and inform them of German tactical positions and troop strength. Once we leave here, we're not resting until that god damned beachhead is secure. Am I understood?" Jack was going through the drawers of the small house's kitchen as he said these things. As a brigadier general, it was understood – in an unsaid fashion – that Jack was the leader of this trio.

In a matter of moments, the three stood at the door dressed in dark coats all the while carrying their supplies.

"We're moving out." Jack stated as Will and Julia nodded.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_In the sky above France_.

The plane roared through the dark sky. Ron Speirs sat by the jump door and examined the dark blue expanse that sat out before him. It was as if the sky was a book that had opened itself up to him – and only him – revealing its strength and majesty. Ron looked out the jump door mesmerized. He fancied that if any force had the power to decide who lived and who died today, it would be the night sky.

He looked over the men that sat behind him. A few of the men were popping air sickness pills. Others sat holding rosary beads and crucifixes, praying silently. Ron had no such ritual, save for glancing at the night sky. He lit a cigarette as the roar of the plane lulled him into a state of silent meditation.

A few Dog Company men stared at Ron and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. They wondered why he wasn't afraid; why he wasn't nervous; why the plane wasn't making him ill. The men, however, were not scared as they had been back in jump training. They now looked at Ron with a sense of reverence. Here, they reasoned, sat a man who was not afraid to die. They realized that this was the only way that they would be able to live through this day – the day of days. Two years ago, Ronald Speirs was a man who they fancied hadn't been hugged enough as an infant. Today, they realized that Ronald Speirs was a fearless leader. He had a reputation at this point. He was not a man to be fucked around with. Some even heard that he was romantically involved with their professor, Dr. Metternich. Nobody dared to speak ill of him – or of Dr. Metternich – for fear of his retribution.

Yet, they did not fear this as they sat with him in their plane. They looked at him and aspired to be like him; they saw in him a sense of the sublime. They wanted to feel what he felt and dream the way he dreamed; they wanted to see the world through his eyes. Maybe then, they reasoned, would they be able to get through this war alive.

The sound of guns firing on the planes surrounding them caused all of the men to rise from the benches in the plane. They had not anticipated to be fired on so early in their flight, for they knew that they were nowhere near their intended drop zones. The men spoke amongst themselves, unsure of what would happen. The sound of a plane exploding next to them made a few of the men want to vomit. In all of the madness, Ron had been able to communicate with one of the pilots. He returned from the small cockpit and stood to address the men on his plane. As the ranking officer, all of the men looked to him for guidance in this situation.

"The pilot has informed me that we are to leave this plane immediately. Equipment check!" he shouted over the roar of the plane.

The numbers descended until he heard himself shouting "1 okay!". He clinched his fists and turned to the men.

"See you in the drop zone." He said calmly. The light in the plane turned green and without thinking, he hurled himself out of his plane and into the wild blue yonder. The intense feeling of the wind shooting through his hair made him smile wildly. His gun was strapped tightly against his chest; his sidearm strapped to his thigh. He felt his parachute open and it sharply prevented him from descending into the French soil beneath him without care. He felt himself gliding through the sky, untouchable.

At that very same moment, Lewis Nixon threw himself out of a plane and into the distance. He had taken a quick swig of Vat 69 prior to doing this. Ironically, in later years, he would remark that it was this very moment – the sensation of being weightless and feeling like God – that compelled him to give up his precious Vat 69 for good.

Hundreds of feet away, Richard Winters fell through the sky and thought of his home, his goals, and a woman he had left behind. He said a silent prayer to God as gravity and his parachute ensured that he would safely reach the ground. He turned from God and placed his faith in his rifle to ensure that he'd get through this war unscathed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.

_A few hours later._

Anya sat on a ship drinking tea and smoking cigarettes with James Grant. The ship was hurtling across the English Channel at record speed, all in the hopes of getting to France immediately following the end of the action. Anya could feel the monstrous propellers of the vast ship pushing her closer and closer to the Normandy coast of France.

"How long have you been awake, young one?" James Grant asked, with a tone of voice that evoked images of Anya's father.

"A day, give or take a few hours. You'd probably be _giving_ the hours though." She finally admitted to her mentor who sat next to her.

"You'd do best to rest before we make for the shore. We're unsure of what we'll run into, Anya." James said. Anya could hear that his voice was stern and that he was not to be reckoned with.

Capitulating, Anya agreed to retreat to her quarters and sleep. That night was the first time in a long time that she let sleep fully take control of her body. She slept for the duration of the voyage. The France that she would wake up in, however, was not the one that she would remember from her childhood.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Here is the long awaited return of this story. I had totally, one hundred percent lost my muse. I think this was a combination of my idea that nobody was really reading or caring about this story, coupled with the fact that I was writing my thesis. So, flash forward to now: my thesis is complete… and somehow, I've decided to come back to this story.

Because it's been so long, you may want to consider re-reading some of the previous chapters so you'll remember where we left off! We will see the return of the evil SS officer (and his henchman, Klimpt) from chapter 13.

And please, guys.** If you're reading, leave me a review and let me know what you think about my writing. It's the only way I get paid around here when I'm writing for free. ;) **It's also a bit motivating in terms of conquering the next chapters. ;)

**Chapter 18**

RIP Winters

The last time Anya Metternich had climbed through sand dunes, the circumstances had been different – everything had been different, in fact. The last time, she was with her father, combing the sandy shores of Cape May, New Jersey for sea shells – but that had been ages ago. Things were indeed different now.

The beach looked like it bore witness to hell. Random scraps of uniform lay strewn across the sandy dunes; the sand was no longer pure colored – it was stained with dirt, blood, and tarnished by heavy tire tracks. It was a testament to what had occurred only hours previously.

Anya grimaced as she continued to walk up the sandy shore to the nearest road. James Grant, along with their security detail, was feet ahead. He climbed with little regard for his age – the security detail, in fact, found it difficult to believe that the man behind the khaki uniform was indeed an old professor with a penchant for pipe smoking and scotch drinking. He walked with a sense of resoluteness, seemingly unmoved by the scene around him. Inwardly, he cringed. He was instantly reminded of trenches and needless warfare.

The World War I veteran in James was disgusted, yet the historian and scholar within him refused to show it. James Grant had seen better days.

Anya continued to walk, unable to think. She didn't think of Ron or her brothers or even Jack Dawson. She trudged on without emotion. It was best not to think at times like these, she reasoned. Prior to seeing the devastation of the beach, she had cursed herself inwardly. She had been angry that she let herself get emotionally attached to one of the men going into such a conflict – and she had been partially angry that she even decided to get involved in the conflict with begin with.

Had she stayed back in New York at the Independent Research Institute, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps she would have felt less guilty. Or, perhaps she would have felt supremely guilty for not lending the government her skills in a time of grave need. After mulling through these thoughts, she told herself not to think as she walked up the beach. She told herself that asking "what if" would do little to help her situation.

And she was right. So she lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and continued to walk up the beach to the road. Moments later, she met up with the men she had been trailing – James Grant and the security detail – and she began to wait for the Jeeps that would soon arrive.

"That was a relief." James Grant said, breaking the silence. A soldier next to him offered him a cigarette – he accepted the slender Lucky Strike with a sense of profound gratitude – a feeling that he expressed merely with a nod of his head. The soldier understood immediately and nodded in return. James Grant had run out of tobacco on the ship from England to France, as many of the people had. Stress had its effects.

"When are the Jeeps supposed to arrive, then?" Anya asked, looking around her. Hedges and trees lined the road; it was well hidden by verdure. Two men in the four-man security detail glanced at each other with a sense of worry.

"Dr. Metternich, the Jeeps were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago – waiting for us."

"God damn it!" Anya cursed to herself, as she continued to smoke her cigarette. "Fifteen minutes?" She inquired again. One of the soldiers nodded.

They stood in silence for a few more minutes before a different soldier spoke up.

"I suggest we move off of the road." He squinted his eyes and looked further down the road. He could hear the faint rumble of one car in the distance – not three Jeeps as he had expected. The sound worried him.

"Is that a car?" James Grant inquired, also squinting his eyes.

The car wasn't a Jeep – and after listening to the motor for a brief second, they all knew what was coming down the road: Germans. Anya wondered why this had been possible – she had sworn that the beachhead was secured – had the ship dropped them off at the wrong place? Had somebody given them away? She cringed.

"Get off the road!" Anya shouted, with eyes wide. "Move!" Anya looked as she saw James Grant struggle to get out of the road. Before she could think, a bullet pierced through the skull of one of the army men that was in the security detail.

"Sniper!" One of the three remaining men shouted, unsure of how to turn the situation around to favor them. His priorities were to protect the two historians – but he was unsure of what he could do. The car was closing in on them fast – and he had little knowledge of whether or not the area around them was even secure. Everything he originally believed to be true was coming into doubt.

He ran quickly toward Anya to shield her from the bullet – she was closest to his position – but it was in vain. James Grant ducked down as he saw a bullet pierce through the man's neck, severing his jugular vein. Blood began to spew outwardly – it was a chaotic mess.

Anya tried to remain strong, but it was little use in the face of such terror and malevolence – if the sniper could pick off the first soldier from that far behind on a moving vehicle, there was no way in hell he couldn't have killed the second in the same fashion from a closer distance. This kill had a purpose – it was to scare them. They wanted to play God – they wanted to be in control – and they wanted to intimidate.

Anya could see James continue to stumble in the corner of her eye. He was merely three feet away – she could grab him, she reasoned – so she attempted to move toward him. A third shot rang out, and Anya briefly wondered whether or not she had been hit – she doubted that she would have felt a thing. She could feel her blood rushing through her veins – she could no longer hear anything after the shot. Her eyes met James' as she grabbed him and shoved him into the brush on the side.

"Take him!" Anya shouted to the two soldiers, meeting their eyes. James was old – he wouldn't be able to get away without help – and she knew that the Germans wouldn't have come all of this way to a remote location with a sniper…. Unless they had been after somebody or something specific…. Anya pushed James with all of her weight – and he practically fell into the soldiers' arms. "Get to the boat!"

"Our orders –" one of the men pleaded, barely able to meet Anya's eyes.

"I'm changing them! Take James!" Anya said as quickly as she could. The car was closing in on them. The look she shot the two soldiers was pressing. "And take back that boat!" Anya pulled one of the soldiers, grabbing fiercely at his uniform. "We've been compromised!" With those final words, she kicked the man in the boots.

Anya stood up, knowing full well that it was either her or James – there was no in between – they both couldn't escape. If one of them stayed behind, she reasoned quickly, full of adrenaline – one could get away and survive. If both ran – a car of Germans with a sniper in tow would be in full pursuit. They wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted – and it was obvious to Anya that they wanted information.

She felt queasy. Nobody shot – the car kept moving down the road as if it had been fleeing hell. Anya stood tall, attempting to mask any sense of fear that she had. If they had wanted to kill her, they would have shot her by now.

She stood tall, though on the inside, she wanted to vomit. Somebody on that boat had been compromised. Somebody had been lying to her – somebody had been within ten feet of her, lying right to her face – somebody had been willing to deliver six people to their deaths in some nameless little French countryside town on the Normandy coast. She didn't even know where she was – she could have been miles from Americans.

The black Mercedes-Benz continued to plow down the dirt road, cutting through the countryside. Had the road not yet been tainted by years of German occupation, it would have been desecrated by the black motorcar.

Anya could see three men in the car – a sniper in the front passenger seat, sitting next to a driver in an SS uniform. A man in what looked like a black leather coat sat smugly in the backseat – their superior, Anya wagered.

The car began to slow down, as the driver realized that the woman about forty feet in front of them was going nowhere.

"Brigadeführer Kahlke, Dr. James Grant is fleeing with the two remaining members of his guard." The sniper looked back briefly at the officer sitting behind him. "We can go in pursuit…" Kahlke frowned.

"We don't have those resources, private." Kahlke continued with a sour taste in his mouth. "The other car was held back at the discretion of my superior… He thought it was wasteful." Kahlke hated that – he hated that people disregarded his advice when it was plainly obvious he was correct. He hated that more than anything.

"The woman isn't going anywhere."

"She's letting Grant and those fools get away. Metternich is sacrificing herself." The lesser officer Klimpt was driving the car but listening to the conversation. "A worthy prize."

"Anya Metternich will be sufficient." Kahlke stated firmly, silencing the sniper and Klimpt. "Stop the vehicle. "

Anya stood approximately ten feet in front of the car. _If they wanted to kill me, they would have done so by now_, she mentally repeated to herself. _If they had wanted to take the shot, they would have…_ She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. There was an officer in the SS standing four feet in front of her, right next to two armed men, one of whom was a highly skilled sniper.

"Dr. Anya Metternich – your photograph does not do you justice." The man's thick accent brought Anya back to reality. "That was quite noble what you did – sparing the old man's life and staying in his stead. It was noble just as it was foolish… yet this foolishness is what I have come to expect from Americans."

Anya would not speak.

"Yet your name is what makes you so interesting – you were born in Nijmegen." The man had files on her, Anya realized. He knew everything about her. "A town of great worth to my comrades." The officer paused. "That was rude of me, Dr. Metternich, to not introduce myself. You will refer to me as Superior Kahlke, and you will cooperate."

"I will not commit treason." Anya said firmly. "I would rather die."

"That can be easily arranged. Perhaps I can make you an offer."

"You know, just as well as I, that I am no position to be making bargains." Anya looked into the man's steel blue eyes. He was a killer.

"A wise statement." Kahlke reasoned. His sniper had his rifle pointed at Anya's head, reducing her ability to even think about using her side arm. "Klimpt – see to it that she is no longer equipped with her pistol."

"Aye, sir."

"Anya Metternich – it was fate, I believe, that led you to stay out in that road." Kahlke continued to speak, as if possessed by the lust for power. "It was destiny, you see. You will soon learn that I am not as bad as I seem – so long as you cooperate."

Anya looked at him with a sense of defiance as Klimpt removed her weapon and began to bind her hands.

"She will ride next to me, Klimpt. Bind her legs in the car." Anya grimaced as cold hands began to restrain her and shove her toward the black vehicle. There was little point in struggling.

After Anya was secure, the men got into the car and began to drive off to an undisclosed location. Anya began to look for any visible signs or places that she could use to determine her location. In his elation, Kahlke forgot to cover her eyes. Anya could use his mistake to her advantage, she realized. So, she began to take an inventory of the scenery that rolled past the car without looking obvious.

Kahlke turned to Anya as the car continued to drive and smiled.

"It was destiny, you see… I could not have Jack or William… so I shall have you." His words were cold, but he was well aware of what he said. He was proud of it.

Anya felt a sickness in the bottom of her stomach that was begging to break free. She needed to do something – and she needed to do something fast.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review and show some love!


	19. Chapter 19

**Dancing in Red's fun facts: ** As of early January, this story has readers from the US, UK, Australia, Canada, Hungary (4), Sweden (3), Germany (3), France (3), Belgium (2), the Netherlands (2), Italy (2), Liechtenstein (1), Portugal (1), Finland (1), Libyan Arab Jamahiriya (1), and Austria (1). This story is on the favorite story list of 26 readers. It is on the story alert list for 35 readers. I find those statistics totally cool.

Thanks to those who reviewed – some of you gave me some great ideas for this upcoming chapter. I hope you folks enjoy this next chapter a lot. Don't be shy – leave me a review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticisms are appreciated.

**Chapter 19**

James Grant and the two soldiers ran to the boat only to find it empty. They were primarily surprised that it was still there – but it was rather obvious, when finding the vessel vacated, that the rat had no choice but to run.

"Give me a map and a compass!" James Grant said frantically, as the three men boarded the boat. He rushed to the front of the vessel.

The two soldiers secured the boat and then procured both a compass and a map. James sat slumped over at the front of the boat with his head in his hands.

"We need to work through this, Doctor. The sooner we –" The man attempted to comfort Dr. Grant, but he could barely contain his own shock. He had never thought that they would be walking into a trap – and he was incredibly upset about his two fallen comrades. He didn't even have enough time to grab dog tags.

"I know. The sooner we establish a location, the sooner we can report what has happened, and the sooner we can go about the needle-in-a-haystack expedition that will be finding Anya Metternich!" James Grant shouted, anger brewing within him.

Less than five minutes ago, Anya Metternich had made herself a living sacrifice – for nobody else but him. The two soldiers that were with Grant on the boat knew that time was of the essence – and that it was running out.

"I never thought Roberts would be a stoolie…" One of the men muttered dejectedly as he sealed up the ship. His counterpart worked on hoisting the anchor. Their weapons sat next to the entry to the boat, far out of sight and mind.

"You knew the man who betrayed us?" James looked up from the maps and compass with a sense of surprise.

"I… I thought I did." He paused. "He never spoke of himself, but I didn't ask any questions."

"Commit everything you know to memory. Once we get into deeper water, we're attempting radio contact on a secure channel with the American command. I know the codes. You'll relay everything you know and we'll investigate everything in great length at headquarters." James looked back down at the map and took a pen out of his pocket. He began to drawn on the map, taking diligent notes. "Can one of you gentlemen get us out of this salty dump?" His voice was strained.

"Aye sir." One of the men walked toward the front of the small ship. "I'm Private Jacobs, sir."

"Private Jacobs, it is my sincerest regret that we have had to make our acquaintance under such dreadful circumstances. And your companion – what is your name?" James Grant didn't even look up from the map. He continued to mark it with his pen.

"Private Edwards, sir." Edwards began to look over the scenery – the boat was sitting out in the open. "Sir… I suggest we leave as soon as possible… I don't know where we are."

"Almost ready to leave." Jacobs stating, keeping the men apprised of the situation. "Do you know where we can find our guys?" Jacobs was eager to get to safety. He didn't want his D-Day plus one to end like this.

"Privates, I'll have you know that I planned this god damned invasion in a smoky, damp, windowless room for over a year." James looked up from the map after he circled a small coastal town a few times with his pen. "I hope that's good enough an answer." The two men looked impressed. James Grant held the map up, showing it to the pair. "We're on the coast of Granville…. Still in Normandy, but I still have a way's to go…" James continued to mumble to himself as he drew on the map. Jacobs squinted. The lines weren't going towards Normandy. They were heading south – into occupied Vichy France.

Jacobs wanted to say something, but he thought against it. Why on earth would James Grant say I instead of we? Edwards walked to the front of the boat and had his back turned to Grant. Jacobs looked at Grant, who continued to draw all over his map. The sense of urgency that had been apparent as he was mapping out their location was lost – and Jacobs looked at Grant with a sense of curiosity. He seemed… off. Jacobs wondered, above all, why Grant was drawing a path that seemed to lead to deep into Vichy France. It worried him.

Grant could feel the heat of Jacobs' eyes on him, watching his every move. He wasn't use to this. He had guarded himself well, he reasoned. He had acted with the precision of a surgeon – every single day. Every day since he got to Toccoa he had lived the myth and cultivated it. He had smoked the pipe, drank the scotch, worn the tweed. He had walked with a cane to exaggerate the image; he had coughed more than necessary to feign weakness. He had even changed his manner of speech, slightly tweaking his accent…

Jacobs could take it no longer.

"Where do you have to go, sir?" He asked, feeling like a child who was asking the wrong question at the wrong time.

"Excuse me, private?" Grant asked, looking up from the map.

"I said, sir… Where do _you _have to go?" Jacobs coughed slightly, perhaps nervous – standing up to James Grant was like standing up to a schoolteacher.

"Private…" James Grant stared Jacobs down. "You'd best not ask questions, boy." The irritation in his voice was apparent.

"Sir, I need to know. Why are you drawing a route that leads to occupied Vichy France?" Jacobs would not back down. Edwards turned from the front of the ship and looked at James.

"You said you planned this invasion every day for over a year." Edwards said, throwing himself into the conversation. "Surely you would have known that we were heading off to Granville… We aren't even near where the 101st dropped off their men! We're so far off the map right now! You said you could see the map of France in your sleep!" Edwards was annoyed. He didn't like being a sitting duck in what he perceived to be enemy water.

"You gentlemen don't know what you're dealing with." James Grant rose from his chair. "You're in over your heads." He stood in between Jacobs and Edwards who were both staring at him intently.

"It was you!" Jacobs snapped. "You and the man steering the boat! You knew all along! You didn't move off of the road when those Krauts were coming in their car, not until Anya pushed you! You knew all along!" His voice rose until it drowned out the sound of the waves washing up against the boat.

"She gave herself up for you!" Edwards shouted.

"As I said, gentlemen." James Grant uttered those words softly and then paused. "You're in over your heads. The game… is over."

James quickly reached into his jacket and pulled out a Luger – it was loaded and ready. Before Jacobs or Edwards could react, James fired off one shot into Jacobs' chest. Jacobs fell to floor of the ship and slumped over immediately. Before Edwards could even make his way across the floor to neutralize James, James procured a long knife from his pants pocket and threw it into Edwards' body with all of the force he could muster.

Edwards was dead.

Grant, for the first time in a very long time, was satisfied. As he look in the sight of Edwards' lifeless body slumped near the front of the boat, he turned to Jacobs. He could hear the young man wheezing and coughing, spitting up blood. A bullet punctured his chest and no doubt pierced his lung – he began to cough up blood.

"That must hurt a lot." James said with a cold voice. He walked over to Edwards' dead body and pulled it toward the door leading onto the boat. With difficulty, he managed to hoist the body up to the door. Before he moved any further, he retrieved a box of Lucky Strikes from Edwards' jacket pocket and tossed it into the table near the door. James then kicked the door open and proceeded to throw the body into the water. He looked down into the water and took in the salty air that surrounded him.

Satisfied that he disposed of Edwards, James pulled the door shut and picked up the box of Lucky Strikes that he threw on the table. He pulled a slender cigarette from the pack and then brought it to his lips. He retrieved a zippo from his jacket pocket and smiled as he lit the cigarette.

He walked over to Jacobs, who was bleeding out on the floor of the boat. James took a long drag from the cigarette and exhaled with a sense of purpose.

"You're making a mess of the ship, Jacobs." He said, once again bringing the cigarette to his lips. He took a satisfying drag from the Lucky Strike and then exhaled defiantly. "You shouldn't have asked questions."

xxxxxx

Kahlke smiled as he pulled his briefcase onto his lap. Anya sat emotionless next to him, masking the fact that she was taking an inventory of her surroundings.

"Look at me, Anya Metternich." Anya looked down at her lap. Kahlke snickered and reached out to her face with his right hand and began to caress it. He then softly moved her face so that she was looking directly at him. "You'll find that things will be easier for you – during your stay in my company – if you follow orders."

Anya remained silent.

"You prefer to remain silent?" Kahlke removed his hand from Anya's face. Inwardly, Anya cringed. His touch made her feel tainted; she had the urge to vomit. "It's no matter, dear Anya. You'll find that once you get to know me, I'm actually quite charming."

The motorcar continued to roar through the countryside, heading southward. Anya's eyes darted around with supreme subtlety. As she saw a sign pass by, she thought she was going to be sick: if her sense of geography and intimate knowledge of the French countryside served her correct, she was going to occupied Vichy France.

"Klimpt, drive faster. I want to get to our destination before nightfall." Kahlke stretched out his arms and began to crack his fingers with impatience. There was an extra tank of gasoline in the car's trunk – he had prepared for this journey far in advance.

"Well, dear Anya, as you enjoy the silence… I have a few items of news that may interest you." Kahlke's attention went back to the briefcase that sat on his lap. He entered the combination – a string of numbers that Anya quickly committed to memory – and opened the leather briefcase. He retrieved a file that contained documents stapled together. "I have your file here… along with information on Jack Dawson and your beloved brothers. It would seem that you have a rat in your company, young doctor. Somebody close to you is divulging information… right into my hands."

"Yet it did little to help you combat the invasion." Anya said boldly.

"There is more to our empire than the Western Front, dear doctor." Kahlke said softly in a cryptic sounding voice. "And, keep in mind, darling – I need not explain myself to anyone, lest of all you. Remember who's in charge… it would do you well. As I was saying, though, before I was rudely interrupted," Kahlke went on, fingering the papers with his thumb. "You're quite the intriguing catch, darling." Anya cringed. "So young, so accomplished… so many skills… I'm quite impressed."

Kahlke paused and smiled. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a German cigarette along with a lighter. Anya could see a flash of light in the corner of her eye; seconds later she could smell the rich odor of nicotine and tobacco. She wanted a cigarette badly. Kahlke knew this.

"Ah, I see now… you enjoy Lucky Strikes – the first week without the cigarettes, darling, they say is the worst…" Kahlke started reading through the file. "And you seem to surround yourself with such influential people… As I was saying… Quite the prize." Kahlke paused and closed the file. With the cigarette carefully placed in between his lips, he put the file back in his briefcase and closed it.

"What could you possibly want from me?" Anya demanded, breaking the silence.

"Information." Kahlke replied with a laugh.

"I won't break down for you." Anya snapped back. "I've devoted most of my adult life to _stopping_ men like you. I would rather die." She didn't care at this point – Kahlke, most likely, already had that in his plans, she reasoned.

Kahlke laughed heartily. "Have you ever seen somebody pushed to the edge?" His voice darkened and his laughter disappeared. "There comes a time when you face the point of no return – and after that, you simply can't go back to who you were before. That point when you walk the fine line between human and animal – you can see it in their eyes, as they change right before you. And then they do things – they do things they never thought they would ever do. They agree to things they never thought they'd agree to. They slowly begin to devolve into madness – and the animal takes over." Anya shuddered. "And that, darling, is when you'll break down for me."

Anya had nothing to say.

"Relax, darling. You needn't preoccupy yourself with that. The breakdown? It can be quite beautiful, if you can appreciate it." Anya could feel her blood run cold. "And, if anything will be said about me in the end – it will be that I was a man who appreciated…" He cupped her cheek with his hand. "Beauty."

xxxxxx

_101__st__ Headquarters_. D-Day Plus 3.

"God damn it!" Colonel Sink kicked a file cabinet with his steel-toed boot. The dying embers of a cigar lit up his ashtray; the grey and black mixture of fumes rose quietly from the tray, dancing delicately up through the air. The greenery outside of the building on the Normandy coast was calm. The constant movement of Red Cross vehicles transporting the wounded and the dead, however, broke that serenity.

A younger, lesser officer sat in the colonel's office. He had not been happy about the message he was in charge of delivering; he knew Colonel Sink would be most displeased with him.

"Sir, we are keeping apprised of the situation as best we can at this point," the younger man started, attempting to apologize for an issue that he was not responsible for.

"How could this happen?" Sink replied, sitting in his chair. He rubbed his eyes with his hand; fatigue was getting the best of him. "Three Jeeps and a truck were gonna meet up with them!" Sink was growing impatient.

"Sir, that's the thing… The vehicles set out en route to the appropriate destination well ahead of their scheduled arrival time. They waited for over three hours for Dr. Metternich, Dr. Grant, and their military escorts. They even had men dug in, looking over the beach. No ships were spotted." The man sighed.

"You're tellin' me that their boat left a larger ship – that I was on! – and less than an hour after I saw them, they disappeared?" Sink looked directly into the man's eyes. "Captain… people don't just _disappear_ in Normandy during an invasion, y'hear me?" Sink's voice rose in volume and his expression was intense. "I want names. I want names of every person on that boat. And when you get me those names, I want files." Sink rose from his chair and the captain returned the gesture.

"Yes sir!" The captain said, eager to get to the bottom of everything.

"Captain, you have two hours." Sink said quietly. The captain saluted and then left his office. It was a tough day for the Colonel – he had, after all, ensured that both Dr. Grant and Dr. Metternich would be safe. He hated that he wasn't able to live up to that.

xxxxxxxxx

A/N: Show some love!


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Thanks for sticking with the story and for giving your lovely reviews. It means a lot and I am so glad that everybody is reading and enjoying!

Chapter 20

Lewis Nixon sat slumped over on a pile of ruins outside of Division Headquarters. His head was in his hands; a dying cigarette hung for its life between two of his fingers. He was shaking. He was unsure of how long he was sitting like that, and he didn't care who saw him.

He had just received some terrible news – Anya Metternich had gone missing along with James Grant. Anya Metternich. Missing. He could barely breathe and he felt like he was drowning.

It began to rain lightly and he didn't notice. He took a desperate drag from his cigarette, sucking all of the calming drug out of it. He threw it violently onto the ground and watched as it fizzled out.

"Care to talk about it?" He knew that voice. He looked up slightly and saw the knowing look of Winters. He eyed Nixon with his piercing gaze.

"She…" Lewis started, looking down. "She's gone." He was surprised the words could even come out. He had tried to avoid saying them, for saying them made them seem real. Perhaps, he thought, if he didn't say anything, she wasn't really gone.

"Lewis?" Dick pushed, unsure of who Lew was talking about.

"Anya." Dick looked at him with a questioning glance, unsure of what he meant by that. "Anya's gone, Dick!" Lewis jumped up and kicked the pile of stones he was sitting on. "She was taken by the Germans!" He hissed in a barely audible voice.

Dick looked at his friend with a sense of disbelief. He was going to say something, but he was distracted by the sight of Ronald Speirs walking into Headquarters. Nixon sighed nervously and began to pace. He lit another cigarette and peered at Dick. Dick had seen those eyes before – they were _thirsty_ eyes. The eyes that Lewis had when he was desperate.

"In all of five minutes, Sink is going to tell that bastard that Anya's gone. You think Sink didn't know about them?" Nixon continued to pace. He was running his mouth, hardly thinking about what he was saying. The words began to sink in for Dick, and he felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"How –"

"There was a rat on the boat." Ron cut Dick off, answering him with a sense of urgency. "We don't know who, but we're trying to figure that out. We've narrowed it down to a few guys…"

"Damn it!" Dick cursed under his breath. He had loathed that such a thing could happen so close to him – he hated the injustice of it all.

x.x.x.x.

Anya desperately tried to stay awake as the sleek motorcar continued to roll through the countryside. Kahlke continued to sit next to her. A cigarette sat between his lips and he wore a smirk. He was satisfied – more satisfied than he had been in a long while. He had been violently angry after Jack Dawson and Will Metternich managed to evade the snares he had set up – the men around him had been immune to his rage.

When his rat, however, connected with the man who claimed to be a professor – the German man Wilhelm Riefenstahl who claimed to be James Grant – all of the pieces fell into place. It was Wilhelm who informed Kahlke, via the rat, that it was Dawson and Metternich who had evaded him for so very long. It was Wilhelm who had told Kahlke to search in that sleepy wintry town to find Dawson. And it was Wilhelm, who had so desperately desired to give Kahlke a prize after Dawson and Metternich had avoided capture.

With that knowledge, Kahlke smiled. He watched as Anya nodded, trying to catch herself from falling asleep once again.

"You know, I have great plans for you." Kahlke muttered, causing Anya's eyes to widen. She had tried to avoid looking at him – if she avoided him, he wasn't real. His voice, however, brought her back into reality. "You might as well give in to sleep."

Anya looked down at her lap. Her head was throbbing.

"There's little point in staying awake, yes? You think Vichy France is your final destination? Think again. We're only getting started. You need not waste your time and agonize over staying alert – you think you'll be awake when you get to where we're going?"

Anya shuddered. She turned to him and gave him a defiant face. She wasn't going down like that.

Kahlke tapped the man in the passenger seat in front of him and nodded his head. The man opened a briefcase and got out a vial of clear liquid and a rag. Kahlke smiled as he grabbed the supplies from the man and began to pour the liquid onto the white rag.

Anya looked at him and knew what was coming. Her eyes widened with fear.

"Now, as I told you darling… it is time to _sleep_." Kahlke pressed the rag onto Anya's face and he felt her struggle briefly. Shortly thereafter, her body went limp.

x.x.x.x.

This was what numbness felt, Ronald realized. This is what it felt like to lose somebody. Sure, there had been his mother… but this was that foreign feeling – the feeling that sat in your stomach after you made an error in your judgment… the cold, aching, empty feeling that swam through your bones and made you shiver – the dreadfully feeling that hit you like a wave of ice from the North Sea in the dead of February – the feeling when you realized that you lost something and it was beyond your control.

Sink had stared at the man intensely after he delivered his news. Months back, he had been surprised that the cold, soldier's soldier had managed to woo Anya. His had been aware of almost everything that occurred at Toccoa – just as he was more than aware of almost everything that occurred afterwards.

"We're still obtaining information, but we will keep you updated. This information, Lieutenant, was not intended to be yours – yet, I felt it was necessary…" Sink paused to find the words. "Given all things considered."

Ronald could not think. He was angry – angry at the world for being cruel. He had expected no mercy from the nature around him and the evilness of men, for he had resigned himself to undertake evil deeds, if necessary, to combat said forces. But Anya… To him, she had done nothing wrong. As far as good and evil went, she had been innocent. She had done her job to _avoid_ the very destruction that she was thrown into.

"This will not get in the way of your duty." Sink said plainly, loudly, and with a tone of voice that resonated through the room. His voice was full of meaning – it was like a fine scotch that was meant to be sipped slowly, so as to take everything in.

"Yes sir." Ronald said quietly. He would find her. His fight, he reasoned within himself, would take on a new dimension – he would fight to find her. He'd save her. Things would go back to the way they were – but there would be no war. He would rescue Anya Metternich.

"And Lieutenant? This information is known only to Winters, Nixon, and yourself… They have instructions… This is on a need-to-known basis…" Ronald realize that he had not been included in that. Winters was in charge of Easy – and if he came into contact with any clues, he would have to pass them onto Sink. Lewis worked within Intelligence – and no doubt the department felt like it had been thrown off of a cliff. They would be hell bent on finding her. He should be grateful to Sink, he realized, for breaking decorum and letting him know what was going on.

"Thank you sir." Ronald said, once again, very quietly.

"You are dismissed." Ronald nodded and walked out of the office. Every step he took felt much heavier than it had been before he had walked into Sink's office – every step felt like it carried some new sort of purpose.

As he walked out of the building, he saw Winters and Nixon standing – both men looked disturbed. He walked over and stood in front of Nixon.

"You know." Ronald said plainly, trying to seem emotionless. He didn't want to crack his cold veneer – not now. He had a job to do.

Lewis looked directly at him and gave him an intense glare. He knew more than he was letting on, Ronald realized. Of course he did – he worked with Intelligence.

"Tell me what happened!" Ronald pressed, glaring at Lewis.

Lewis looked at him and shook his head. "I shouldn't." He didn't want to see Speirs' face after delivering the news – he didn't want to face the monster he knew Speirs would evolve into.

"Nixon, God damn it!" Ronald said loudly.

Richard looked at the two men and then eyed Lewis.

"Lewis." Richard pressed. "Please." There couldn't be any more secrets, he realized. He needed to know as well.

Lewis lit another cigarette – he couldn't talk about the details, not without something to comfort him.

"There was a rat on the boat… the boat that took Grant and Anya from England… they were supposed to rendezvous with some Jeeps. They were supposed to come back here." Lewis looked down. The details made him ill. "Two of the men that were part of the security detail were found dead on a road incredibly far from the original rendezvous point – their tags… damn it… They were two of the men that had been with Grant and Anya… they were sniped…" Lewis began to pace. He felt as if he was on the verge of exploding.

"Two bodies… Intelligence just got word that two bodies – two of the other men on that boat were found dead. Shot… they washed up on the shore. The probably died after the two men were sniped… One man from the boat is missing in addition to James and Anya."

Ronald looked at Lewis with eyes of steel.

"His name." He said forcefully. He wanted more than anything to find the name of the man who had not been accounted for.

"Andrew Anderson." Lewis looked down. "Andrew fucking Anderson." Lewis paused once again, and then met Ronald's eyes. "He wasn't at Toccoa. We just did a background check… he wasn't anybody before last month. Andrew Anderson only came into existence last month."

Ronald kicked the building they were standing next to with unbridled violence.

"We need to find him," he managed to say between his teeth, in between fits of rage.

"The Intelligence department… has decided against that course of action." Lewis said, his voice steeped with emotion.

Ronald looked like he had just broken with reality.

"The Intelligence department decides who is worth it and who is not?" He exclaimed, full of rage. "_I _will find him, damn it! I will!" Ronald was prepared to walk off – hell, he was prepared to fight the entire German Army by himself.

"Lieutenant Speirs." Colonel Sink stood in front of the three men with a stern look. After Speirs had stormed out of his office, he had been peering out of his window gazing on the scene below him. After seeing an argument about to unfold, Sink had come out of the building to see what was going on.

Speirs turned to face his superior. He had no emotion on his face – and he had no regret.

"Y'all stop it – and stop acting like nobody gives a damn about what just happened." Sink paused and took turns looking at each of the men. "I'll be damned, Lieutenant Speirs, if you're going to throw away your career for a lost cause. Anderson? Not on my time." Sink looked at Speirs intensely and dared the man to question his judgment. "And I'll be damned if y'all start acting like this war is already over! I'll be damned! Y'all don't think I have a plan? I won't go quietly – but don't try to tempt fate!"

Sink rarely ever spoke like that. After those words – thrown out into the air in his intense Southern drawl – he walked away and went into the Headquarters building. Speirs looked at Nixon and Winters – and then walked off into the evening.

Little did Winters, Speirs, and Nixon know that Sink did – even if it wasn't regulation or even _legal_ – had something in mind.

x.x.x.x.

Anya woke up to a piece of buttered bread being shoved in her face. The countryside around her looked different – it looked foreign. She knew that she was no longer in France. She no longer felt scared – she felt numb.

One of Kahlke's henchmen stood outside of the car, forcing Anya to eat the bread. He knew that Anya was too tired and hungry to refuse the food. She reluctantly ate the provisions; it had been too long since she had last eaten. They gave her enough food to keep her functioning – but so little that she would have little energy to break free or even begin to question them.

The henchman put a canteen of water up to Anya's lips. She parted her lips and began to gulp down the water – she had been painfully thirsty.

"Blindfold her." Kahlke commanded with a stern voice. Anya slumped back in the car. She didn't want to move. "You'll see, Anya, I am not as daft as you fancy me to be. Worry not… we'll be at our destination soon enough."

Anya felt a piece of cloth being wrapped around her head. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and attempted to sleep. Before she could make herself comfortable, she felt a damp rag cover her nose and mouth voice again.

The first time this had happened, she had attempted to fight it. This time around, she had no energy left with which to fight. She inhaled into the rag, desiring nothing more than to end it quickly. Kahlke smiled as he saw her body go limp without any struggle.

"She has grown wise." He stated with a smirk, as he stepped into the car once again and prepared for the final leg of their journey.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note**: Thanks for your reviews. I appreciate them! It's good to know that people are reading, appreciating, and following the story.

**Chapter 21**

_I was running. I was running so fast and so hard and the hay in the field cut up against my legs until they bled. But I kept running. And the sky was so blue – the sun was so hot I could feel it burning my skin – but I kept running. And I swear the trees looked so far off in the distance – but I wanted to be in that forest more than I wanted to be alive. My life was connected to my task. I kept running._

Strange dreams and musings filled Anya's head. She could feel her own consciousness speak to her – she was neither awake nor asleep. It was a strange feeling. She dreamt of many random, unrelated things – the town of Nijmegen in the Netherlands, where she was born – the tea kettle whistling in her apartment back in New York City – the strange, strange sensation of smoking a cigarette for the first time and coughing – Jack Dawson running up behind her, chasing her and her brothers through the woods, like the father that she had lost so long ago…

_I was screaming. My lungs were full of air – air that must have been sent there by some sort of God to fight the water – I was breathing because I was so afraid of drowning. I was screaming as loud as I could – anything I knew. I kept yelling my name. I have a name. I am somebody. I am not lost. I know who I am. I kept yelling, begging for freedom. I was screaming at the top of my lungs until my voice disappeared into the night. _

She was so cold. She could feel the wind blow against her body – it must have been drizzling, because she felt damp and cold. The droplets of water hit her body at weird, angles, as if the car was cutting through the mist. She could smell cigarette smoke – the German… the Nazi… she forgot his name, in a moment of blindness… he was smoking a cigarette… - and she could smell the exhaust of the car. It wouldn't stop. The car moved as if there was a deity behind it, urging the car to go faster.

She wanted to take up. She wanted to fight it. She wanted to be free.

x.x.x.x.

A rumor started that day – a rumor that swept through the groups of men and never quite died down. The rumor would continue to circulate over half a century later – nobody would quite forget it. On that day, Ronald Speirs had not intended to become immortal. He had not intended for things to transpire the way they did.

He had merely offered them cigarettes. He didn't know why he did that – he hated the German Army. Something about the American sent to fight for the German Army by his family – sent against his will – made him feel bad. Something broke through his anger and touched him. Maybe it was that boy from Oregon – maybe.

Regardless, he opened his box of Lucky Strikes and began to hand them out. He wondered if he even cared anymore. He wondered if there was anything beyond _her_ for him to dare to care about. He lit a few of the cigarettes and left the men to their own devices to light the rest.

And that's when he heard the shot.

Some unknown man – some unknown man who nobody would ever know the name of – began to shoot at the prisoners as he walked by the group. He had shouted various slurs and epithets – he had been angry that his farm was destroyed. He was French.

Ron didn't know how the man had managed to get to the prisoners, but it was too late. The men didn't see it coming – and after the first few seconds, they began to shield themselves. One of the prisoners, however, turned on Ron. He lunged for him and took a knife he had been hiding in his boot – a knife that a clumsy GI, no doubt, had not quite cared to search for. As the knife came close to Ron's neck, he quickly kicked the man to the ground and aimed his gun.

Other men had joined the fight – and Ronald was alone. Six men were left – some of whom he had given the cigarettes to – and they began to come at him. So Ronald did what he had learned: he attempted to survive.

He hated himself for it – almost as much as he hated Andrew Anderson. He fired his weapon repeatedly until the last man was down. Perhaps one of the men knew Andrew Anderson, he reasoned. Perhaps one of the men had seen his Anya. Perhaps somebody knew what was going on.

He heard a faint whimper about twenty feet in front of him – twenty feet, hidden from view, behind a tree. He walked over, not caring who saw him. He didn't care about anything anymore.

It was the boy from Oregon – the American sent to the "Fatherland" by his parents. He had been shot in the shoulder.

"I shouldn't be here right now." His perfect English and accent from the Pacific Northwest irked Ron. The boy was so damned American in hurt.

Ron felt as if he was the angel of death – he was thrown into something that he had not wanted to part of – he had not asked for that delusional, upset Frenchman's actions… The angel of death, he reasoned, had some sense of justice. Some sense of mercy or compassion hidden deep within him… there had to be more than just air in between his ribs. There had to be more than that.

Ronald looked at the boy and shook his head. He didn't know why he did what he did – but he did it nonetheless.

"Stand up." He said with a sense of authority. The boy obeyed. Ron realized that the boy must have thought he shot all of the men – he had no idea that the crazed farmer had started everything.

The boy stood and leaned against the tree. Blood began to seep out of his German uniform.

"Take this…. And go…" Ron said simply, with a cold voice. He handed the boy morphine and looked square into his eyes.

The boy questioned him. "I'm…"

"Something good had to come out of that." Ron stated solidly, knowing full well that the boy couldn't begin to understand what was going through his head. "Ditch your uniform behind the tree and head to one of the farms." Ron remembered something – he had taken the American flag patch off of an deceased soldier's uniform and stowed it in his pocket… He retrieved the patch quickly and handed it to the boy. "You were never German."

The boy looked up at him with grateful eyes. Ron didn't smile – he showed no emotion.

Something good had to come out of that day, he realized. Something had to prevent him from becoming a monster.

x.x.x.x.

_I used to be somebody. _Anya's body moved slightly. She was still in the car. _I used to swim in the ocean – I know the smell of salt water. _She tried to move her foot as delicately as she could. _I used to be somebody_. She continued to struggle. Kahlke hadn't noticed. _I am still alive._ She opened her eyes; her view consisted only of the fabric that was wrapped around her head.

_I used to be somebody_. She cried out to herself. She was conscious yet could not move – the feeling was absolutely terrifying. _I am alive_. She continued to call out to her body, breaking through the darkness. _I used to be somebody._ She began to move her toes. _I am alive._ She curled ten toes and began to flex her calf muscles. _I used to be somebody._ She gained the strength to move thumbs. _I am alive._

x.x.x.x.

"You're worth your stars, you know that?" Colonel Sink sighed as he looked at the sight before him. It had been a while – and he was standing in front of a man he'd never thought he'd have the pleasure of seeing again. He took a bottle of bourbon from his shelf and poured two generous glasses.

"I hear you have a… Nazi problem… shall we say… that you need me to take care of." The man stretched out and flashed a toothy grin at the Colonel. It had been ages since he sat in a chair that wasn't behind enemy lines – ages! He had tried so desperately to get to that very place… and he finally had.

When the man had heard that Anya had gone missing, a part of his soul died. He felt empty – he felt like his countless struggles had been in vain. More than anything, he wanted to exact vengeance. He wanted to make his wrath known – he wanted the folks who had taken away months upon months of his life to pay for what they had done. He wanted the perpetrators – those who his comrades had been betrayed by – to come to justice.

"You could call it that." Colonel Sink said calmly. He lit a cigar and looked at the map that sat on his desk. "Intelligence ain't got the slightest clue where to look – all they can say for sure is that Anya and James Grant may be in Vichy France."

"That's not enough for me, Bob." The man sighed. "They know France will eventually fall. If they want those two… they've taken them elsewhere. They've taken them deep into German territory."

"Are you telling me that I've lost two of my greatest resources… and that they're well behind enemy lines?" Sink asked pointedly, just to be sure that he had everything straight. The man nodded.

"God damn it!" Sink shouted, caring little about the rank of the man who stood before him.

"We'll work on it." The man paused. "I'll find them. You can be sure of that."

"Jack, we need to keep this agreement of ours… _off the record_." Sink looked deep into Jack Dawson's eyes. "This isn't an authorized mission. It was deemed to risky to waste resources on two people – a woman and an old man, no less."

"The American military doesn't know that I've been found, Bob." Jack said with a cocked eyebrow. "See to it that it stays that way."

"What about Will Metternich?" Colonel Sink asked. "Am I going to him lie about you?"

"He's not under your command – nor is he under mine. He did what he was supposed to do – and he's immediately been reassigned… Of course, I can't disclose his location… but he knows what to say and what sort of story he's sticking with."

"Aye, that's… relieving." Sink took a long puff from his cigar and then blew out the smoke with a sense of deep satisfaction. Finally, it seemed, something on the Metternich case was going right.

"Bob, I won't lie to you. This is not going to be easy – what you're asking me. And it's not Grant I am concerned with – I don't know him. I've never met the man."

Sink's eyebrows rose immediately.

"Surely, you saw him at the Independent Research Institute when you recruited Anya… That's what he had told us!" Sink exclaimed.

Jack paused and took a few moments to think.

"The deception clearly runs deeper than we had thought. I had never met James Grant – and he most certainly never worked with Anya at the Independent Research Institute. I know of a man… Grant, his last name is… an historian… but he isn't an old man, like you said James Grant was. This man I know… he fought in the trenches. He was at Ypres… and the Somme… he's not American, Bob… and he can't be more than fifty years old…"

"God damn it!" Sink exclaimed, angrier than he had ever been in his life. "There's something wrong about this, Jack! This dog ain't gonna hunt!" He kicked his desk with a rage that he had never expressed in his office. Jack had a pained look on his face.

"As I said, you ask a lot, Bob." He sighed. This was worse than he thought it was. "My mission, then, is to find Anya Metternich – wherever she is – and get to the bottom of this deception." He said those words resolutely and took a deep breath. "I'm leaving tonight. I'll require a Jeep and the coordinates where those bodies were found."

Bob looked at Jack with a meaningful glance and smiled sadly.

"Thank you, Jack." The two men had known each other for a long time and they shared a deep sense of mutual respect. "I have three men I need you to see…. Before you leave…"

Jack nodded and contemplated the task that was before him.

x.x.x.x.

Kahlke saw Anya begin to move and smiled slightly. His prey was finally fighting his methods – fighting against the steady stream of drugs. His henchman nodded and Kahlke was given another rag, with a light dose of chloroform.

Before Anya could completely break from her paralysis, she was sent into sleep once again. She had no energy to fight the rag – she found it impossible to move. Kahlke once again smiled as he saw her body fall limp.

_I will break you down, until you can no longer fight me – and then, that is when I shall get exactly that which I require. There is…_ She heard his ugly words in his jarring accent swim through her head and bounce in the space between her ears. _Some beauty in the breakdown._

x.x.x.x.

Ronald Speirs, Lewis Nixon, and Richard Winters stood up in Colonel Sink's office. They had been summoned there at seventeen hundred hours. They were let in by Sink's secretary. Much to their surprise, his office was empty. The three continued to wait.

They all knew why they were there – it had to do with Anya – one of the few things all three men shared in common. They stood in silence for a few moments. Dark thoughts crept into their minds, forcing them to wonder if they were there to receive news that her body had turned up. They remained silent.

The door quickly opened. Before the men could turn around, Jack Dawson stood in front of them, standing where Sink usually sat. The brass on his uniform betrayed his rank – they had quickly realized that they were standing at ease in front of a Brigadier General. All three men hastily fell into a salute.

"At ease, gentlemen." Jack remarked casually. "Sit down." Nobody questioned his order. "And get that tenseness out of your faces. This isn't about bad news." The three men looked noticeably more relaxed.

"My name is Jack Dawson." He started, indicating that this meeting would be down-to-business and that he would be doing most of the talking. "I have known the Metternich family for a very long time. I've been a... surrogate parent, if you will…. To Anya and her brothers. I am also the man who recruited Anya to Toccoa."

Jack Dawson looked like a puzzle that was impossible to solve.

"You were the man who went missing." Lewis Nixon stated blankly, aware that this meeting was, if anything, casual.

"You work with Intelligence, then? Lewis Nixon, is it? Yes, I did go missing, albeit more briefly than others have…"

"You were with Will Metternich." Speirs, stated, remembering the picture that Anya gave her – a picture of Anya standing in between her two brothers. "You were on the run."

"He has since been reassigned and I am ready to undertake my next mission." Jack stated solidly. "My next mission is at the behest of Colonel Sink – as well as my own conscious." He looked meaningfully at the three men. "I am not supposed to be here, gentlemen. I am missing in action. I am somewhere deep behind enemy lines in the heart of the Reich. I am, for our intents and purposes, presumed to be dead."

Jack paused. He stretched his body out a bit. He had just shaved his face prior to the meeting. After months moving through the wilderness and hiding, he finally looked like a man of his position. One might even have thought that he was quite handsome, in an incredibly rugged sort of way.

"I am sure you understanding the implications of my words. This mission… is _not_ sanctioned. There will be no report. There will be no updates. There will be no contact, no communication, and no word until I determine my task has been seen through." He sighed. "I am leaving within the next half hour." He sighed once more. "I am going to Germany."

The men looked shocked. Jack Dawson rose. The three men followed his lead and saluted him. Speirs lingered behind after Winters and Nixon walked out of the office.

Speirs gave Dawson a meaningful look.

"You're the one that loves her." Jack stated, sure of himself. Ronald said nothing. "Ah, and you are indeed… a soldier's soldier." Jack smiled. "This is interesting."

Ron moved closer to him and wanted to speak.

"No." He stated simply. "You cannot follow me." Jack said, knowingly. For a man who seemed so casual, he was painfully aware of all that went on around him.

"General –" Ron sought to explain himself.

"You cannot follow me, Lieutenant Speirs." He eyed the man and sighed. "Your place is here. You must see the war out with _these _men. That is your job – that is what you have agreed to do." Ron said nothing else.

Jack smiled slightly. "The gesture is appreciated, Lieutenant." Jack walked to the door and turned to Ron. "Wish me well, I have quite a hunt ahead of me." Ron nodded and a slight twang of appreciation was visible through his hard face.

Regardless of what happened, he realized at that moment that nothing would be the same.


End file.
